Sliding Into Trouble
by Elf Eye
Summary: An elfling tale in The Nameless One Series. Anomen seems to run afoul of all of Imladris.
1. Chapter 1: Sliding Into Trouble

**Chapter 1: Sliding into Trouble**

**This notion suddenly hit me, and as I haven't written an elfling tale in several weeks, I could not resist.**

**Beta Reader: None, as this is a side story that will only be two or three chapters in length. _Joee_, if you are still out there, enjoy yourself.**

Elrond worriedly studied his face in a mirror. Elves are immortal, and although they can be said to 'age', they do not do so after the fashion of Men. Their eyes develop greater depth as they accrue wisdom, and their facial and bodily proportions alter as they pass from the elfling stage, but they lose none of their vitality and strength as they grow older. They reach maturity and stop, never moving on into what Men would recognize as 'old age'. Among the human changes that an Elf never experiences is the onset of grey hair. Elrond, however, gazed anxiously into the mirror because he was sure that after today he _would_ sport grey hair.

That scamp Anomen was at the root of it, of course. Elrond was beginning to get used to the sight of the elfling sliding down stairways upon a board. He was even beginning to grudgingly acknowledge that the lad was quite good at that method of locomotion. So the Master of Rivendell had not been particularly alarmed when he saw Anomen, board in hand, standing at the top of a stairway that led into the garden. But then, just as Anomen leaped upon the board and began his descent, Elrond noticed something draped over the edge of one of the steps. Ai! It was Arwen's stuffed horse. Elrond gave a shout, but it was too late. Anomen's board hit the toy and Anomen pitched forward as he was catapulted into the air. Near the base of the stairs stood a fountain, and before the fountain stood Glorfindel, with his back to Anomen. Hearing Elrond shout, the balrog-slayer spun about just in time to reflexively catch Anomen in his arms. The lad's momentum drove Glorfindel backwards, and with a great splash Elf and elfling fell into the fountain. Spluttering, Glorfindel let go his hold on Anomen, and the elfling immediately sprang to his feet, leaped from the fountain, and fled as fast as his fleet feet could carry him. Ai! As the young one rounded the corner, he collided with Erestor, who had just mixed a new batch of ink for the manuscript he was working on. Of _course_ the bowl of ink was knocked into the tutor's face. His eyes full of ink, Erestor staggered blindly, right into the path of Figwit, who had come into the garden to inform Elrond that Mithrandir had just returned from a visit to Lothlórien. When Erestor fetched up against Figwit, the unfortunate messenger was thrown into a bush—a rose bush, one well supplied with thorns. Figwit let out a shriek as the thorns tore his skin—Figwit was rather an excitable Elf—and Lindir, who was on the terrace above the garden, seized his bow, nocked an arrow, and began to race down the stairs. Unfortunately, Arwen's toy horse was _still_ in the way, and Lindir, whose eyes were seeking the source of the shriek, did not observe it. Stumbling over the toy, he accidentally released his arrow. Gandalf, who had been following Figwit at his leisure, strolled into the garden just then, and as luck would have it, Lindir's errant arrow came to rest in his hat. Startled, the wizard involuntarily uttered a phrase of power, and the resulting bolt of fire from his staff struck an elegant old spruce right at its base. As Elrond watched helplessly, the spruce groaned and slowly, with a cracking sound, the tree began to tilt toward a gazebo. At last the spruce reached the tip point and over it went. It crashed into the gazebo, and that structure fell over onto a statue, which knocked over a second, smaller tree, which knocked over a trellis, which knocked over a bench. The Gardener, hearing the racket, came running into the garden and tripped over the fallen bench. At that point, Elrond turned and fled from the scene, for he did not wish to see the sequel. As he fled, he was pursued by a series of crashes that were at least as appalling as those created during the first round of the disaster.

And that was how Elrond came to be standing before his mirror examining his braided hair with great care. Just then he heard a knock upon the door.

"Enter," the elf-lord said with some trepidation. Then he had to suppress a smile as a grey-faced Erestor came unhappily into the room.

"Elrond," moaned the tutor, "I have scrubbed and scrubbed, but I have been unable to entirely remove the ink from my visage. I pray that you will use your knowledge of herbs and simples to devise a cleansing lotion."

"You are to be complimented on the quality of your ink, Erestor," Elrond replied with a smile, "else no doubt it would have been a simple matter for you to wash it from your face."

Erestor did not return Elrond's smile. Sighing, the elf-lord took Erestor by the elbow and escorted the irate Elf to his study, where he began to rummage through bowls and vials. As Elrond searched for ingredients, Erestor launched into a long tirade on the subject of incorrigible younglings.

"Elrond, I insist that you do something to rein in Anomen before he brings about the complete and total destruction of Imladris," he sputtered.

"I hardly think that one elfling could have such a deleterious effect, Erestor."

"But Anomen does not act alone. He is a bad influence upon the twins and draws them into his plots."

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Erestor, more often than not the twins—or Elrohir, at least—are a bad influence upon Anomen. And Anomen does not 'plot'. He stumbles into trouble, as he did today—literally, I might point out."

"Whether deliberate or no, you must admit that Anomen seems to get into an inordinate amount of trouble."

Elrond could not deny the truth of this statement, so, ever sensible, he did not try. When he failed to speak, Erestor continued triumphantly.

"Hah! You concede the point. Now what do you plan to do about him?"

Elrond pondered. What indeed? 'How', he thought, 'do you solve a problem like Anomen? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?' He sighed and shook his head.

"Erestor, I think we shall simply have to allow Anomen to grow more mature and settled. Becoming an Elf takes time."

"Time? And how much time do you propose to allow the scamp? Five hundred years? A thousand years? I'll warrant that after only a hundred years there won't be a building left standing in Imladris!"

"You exaggerate, Erestor."

"And for your part, Elrond, you are too quick to make excuses for the lad."

By now Elrond had finished formulating his concoction, and both Elves were relieved when Erestor accepted the cleansing unguent and hurried off to apply it to his stained visage. Once the tutor had left the room, Elrond commenced pacing back and forth. Was there, he wondered, any truth to what Erestor said? Did Anomen require a firmer hand than the elf-lord had hitherto extended? Just then Elrond heard yet another knock upon his door, a gentler one before.

"Enter," called the Master of Rivendell. A dark-haired elfling, his face tear-streaked, peered timidly into the room. Elrond stared puzzled at the elfling for several seconds, for he did not recognize the young one as a member of his household. Then he gave a start, for he realized that the lad was Anomen, his hair saturated with ink. Erestor, it seems, had not been the only one splattered. Elrond beckoned for the young one to approach, and Anomen cautiously drew near.

"I see," Elrond said with a smile, "that this time you have managed to dye your own hair instead of someone else's. Fortunately I have but lately devised a remedy."

With his hand on Anomen's shoulder, Elrond gently steered his new patient into the study, where the necessary ingredients were still out upon a table. Quickly he compounded a new batch of unguent. "Off to the bath with you," he said, handing the bowl to Anomen. "But when you have finished, return to me, for you and I must have a conversation about the day's events."

An hour later a nervous Anomen stood before Elrond's study. His hair was several shades lighter but still tinged with brown, for hair takes up dye much more effectively than skin. He raised his hand to knock upon the door, but then, irresolute, he lowered it. 'Perhaps', he thought to himself, 'perhaps I ought to stay out of his sight for awhile. 'Tis true he smiled at me, but, well, his unguent has not entirely worked, and, um, perhaps that will put him out of humor'. He turned to make his escape, only to see an approaching delegation: Glorfindel, Erestor, Figwit, Lindir, and Mithrandir. Trapped between these folk and the door to the study, he decided he might be safer by the side—or behind the skirts!—of the Master of Rivendell. Without bothering to knock, he flung open the door and dashed inside, causing Elrond to look up in astonishment from the scroll he was perusing. "Anomen," he began, but halted when Anomen dove under the table, coming up on the other side and flinging his arms around the Elf's legs.

"Please, Lord Elrond," begged the elfling, "don't let them at me!"

"Anomen, whatever are you talking about?" asked a bemused Elrond. Just then the delegation arrived at the open door. "Oh ho," chortled the Elf, "I see what the matter is." Gently he loosened Anomen's grip on his knees and drew him to his feet, putting an arm around him to reassure him.

"Good evening, my friends," he said. "I suppose you are here on account of this young one."

"We are," said Erestor sternly. "Have you thought about what I said?"

"I have indeed, Erestor, and since you have so kindly offered your advice, I thought you might have a hand in the remedy. I shall assign Anomen to assist you. That will give him something to occupy his time and keep him out of trouble. Moreover, you will no doubt have a steadying influence on him."

"Assist me? Whatever could he do to assist me?"

"At the very least, he can help you make ink."

Erestor looked horrified. "That won't be necessary," the tutor exclaimed. "I have had more than enough of ink!"

"Are you declining the offer of an apprentice, then?"

"I am indeed!"

Hiding his smile, Elrond turned to Lindir.

"In that case, Anomen could assist our Lindir in the fashioning of arrows."

That Elf looked more than horrified; he looked terrified. To be thrown into close quarters with Anomen and hundreds of sharp arrow points—this was not a prospect he found appealing! He declined as forthrightly as Erestor had.

It was becoming difficult for Elrond to hide his amusement. He addressed Figwit.

"Anomen is a fast runner, Figwit. He could assist you in the delivery of messages."

Figwit hastened to assure Elrond that he had no need of an assistant. "It has lately been rather quiet—not much coming and going between the kingdoms—so I am sure I would not be able to find enough for the young one to do."

Now Elrond turned to the wizard.

"Mithrandir—."

"I was just about to depart—for Mirkwood. Yes, that's it, for Mirkwood," Mithrandir said quickly. "Sudden change of plans, don't you know! And, well, he can't very well accompany me _there_."

No, that would be out of the question. Sensing victory, Elrond at last allowed a smile to o'erspread his face. His smile quickly vanished, however, when Glorfindel spoke up. "I will do it," he said bravely. "I will take the lad."

Astonished, all turned to stare at the speaker. Glorfindel, the balrog-slayer, was offering to take responsibility for the good behavior of Anomen—Anomen, the Master of Mischief, the Prince of Pranks, the King of Chaos?

"Are you quite certain that you wish to do this," Elrond asked doubtfully.

"Yes. I have mastered many a monst—many a creature. I am sure I can manage to deal with this one."

No one looked convinced, but since Glorfindel had offered, all agreed that, for a trial period at least, Anomen would be apprenticed to the balrog-slayer. All agreed, that is, save Anomen. But his opinion had not been solicited, and he was too fearful to offer it. At least, he thought mournfully to himself, he had not had his head handed to him, as had seemed likely at the outset. Of course, what the morrow would bring was another matter altogether!


	2. Chapter 2: Silent Watcher

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Elfinabottle, Enigma Jade, Lilandriel, Joee, Dragonfly, Avion Jade, Opalkitty, K'lara7, Windwraith, CAH, _and _Karri_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 2: Silent Watcher**

After an early breakfast the next morning, a reluctant Anomen trailed after Glorfindel as the balrog-slayer strode to the training field to meet the newest class of novices. These little elflings included not only youngsters from Rivendell but also several who had been sent from Lothlórien because of Glorfindel's fame as a teacher who would thoroughly ground his students in both sword and bow. Judging from the cut and color of his tunic, there was even one elfling who haled from Greenwood. Fortunately, this elfling was much younger than Anomen. Still, Anomen studied him carefully until he was quite sure that he did not remember ever having seen him in Thranduil's Great Hall. 'He will not recognize me', Anomen thought with relief. 'Whatever else goes wrong today, I need not fear discovery'.

Glorfindel divided his pupils into two groups. One he supervised. The other, much to Anomen's surprise, he handed over to his 'apprentice'.

"You know the basic rules of the archery field," Glorfindel said to Anomen, "and that is all that must be covered today. At the outset, it is necessary to emphasize safety above all else. Even if not a single target is hit today, it will be enough if no elfling is poked with an arrow or, the Valar forbid, shot by a companion."

Anomen gathered his pupils around him. He was nervous, but he knew that it was important that he not appear to be so, lest the little ones become anxious as well. 'I must act like a grown Elf', he said to himself. 'I must be calm and confident'.

"Who can tell me why you have been sent to learn archery?" he began, mimicking the manner of his elders. "Yes," he said encouragingly to a youngling who looked as if he might be willing to speak.

"To become warriors?" the elfling said tentatively.

"Correct. And why must you become warriors?" Anomen replied.

"Because that is what ellyn grow up to be," the elfling answered. This was a true answer but not a very helpful one. Anomen turned to a second elfling, who, emboldened by the first, was waving his hand in the air to catch the attention of his 'teacher'. "Would it be so very terrible," Anomen asked him, "if ellyn did _not_ grow up to be warriors?"

The elfling long and hard. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, it would be."

"Why would it be so terrible?"

"Warriors defend our folk. If there were no warriors, nasty creatures would attack our villages."

"What do warriors use to defend our folk?"

"I know that," offered a third elfling. "Warriors use weapons—swords and knives and bows and arrows."

"True. A warrior uses a sword or a knife if he must fight close, a bow for fighting at a distance. But what do these weapons have in common?"

"They have sharp edges!" exclaimed a fourth elfling.

"Why must they be sharp?"

The elflings looked at Anomen as if he had taken leave of his senses.

"It would be pretty silly if they were not," said the first elfling to have spoken. "They wouldn't hurt as much if they weren't sharp."

"So a warrior must hurt others?"

"Ye-es," said the elfling, a little uncomfortable now.

"And it is his weapons that allow him to do so?"

"Yes."

Anomen drew an arrow from his quiver. He proffered it to the elfling. "Touch the tip," he ordered. The elfling did so and immediately drew back his hand.

'Is it sharp?"

"Yes."

"It is sharp so that it can hurt someone?"

"Yes."

"Kill someone?"

"Ye-es."

"Is it sharp only to an enemy?"

"No, it would be sharp to anyone who touched it."

"So it would hurt anyone, not just an enemy?"

"Yes."

"It would kill anyone, not just an enemy?"

"Yes."

Anomen looked around at the faces of his pupils. There had been some giggling and tussling at the outset, but now all watched and listened intently.

"So we are agreed then. An arrow is not choosy. Whomever it hits, it will hurt—maybe even kill. It must be so, else it would not be useful as a weapon."

Nods all around.

Anomen pointed at an elfling. "If an arrow hit _you_, it would hurt you."

Big-eyed, the elfling said nothing.

Anomen pointed at another elfling. "If you were to shoot an arrow into the body of one of your friends, it would hurt him, is that not so?"

The elfling managed a tiny nod.

"What are we to do, then, since the bow and arrow is so dangerous? Shall we not learn to shoot?"

Silence. Anomen let the silence grow. At last an elfling ventured an answer.

"We _must_ learn to shoot, else we cannot become warriors."

"Then what are we to do?" Anomen repeated. "We do not want to be hurt; nor do we wish to hurt our friends. How are we to solve this problem?"

"We must be careful," offered an elfling, "like our parents. Knives are sharp, too, but when my Nana pares vegetables, she is very careful not to cut herself."

"Mine is, too," chimed in another. "She has told my sister never to cut toward herself."

"So," said Anomen, "there are ways of handling dangerous tools in order to lessen the danger."

"Yes!" chorused his pupils.

"Do you think it would be a good idea to learn ways to handle the bow and arrow so as to lessen _its_ danger?"

"Yes! Yes!" clamored his pupils.

"Then let us do so at once," Anomen said briskly. "The first thing you must remember is to never remove an arrow from your quiver until the order is given. Likewise, you must wait for the order to nock the arrow. What about drawing the string? What do you think the rule may be?"

"Wait for the order!" chanted the elflings.

"What about releasing the arrow?"

"Wait for the order!"

"Good. That is the first rule on the training field. Always wait for your leader to give the command. That rule alone will save you much grief. The second rule is to always look about you with great care."

As Anomen spoke those words, it suddenly occurred to him that _he_ had not looked about him with great care before beginning his descent down the stairs. Had he done so, he would have seen the toy upon the step. But he pushed the thought from his mind, for it was necessary to concentrate on the matter at hand. He returned to the litany of rules.

"Never shoot unless you can see your target in plain view. If you shoot over an obstacle, a friend may be on the other side."

All the elflings nodded gravely.

"Where should you stand on the training field?"

"Not in front of the target!" exclaimed an elfling.

"True. You should only approach the target to retrieve spent arrows—and when is the only time that you should you do so?"

"When the order is given," chanted the elflings.

"Yes. The rest of the time, you must stay behind the firing line. You never, ever want to stand forward of the firing line. You might think you are safe if you are not directly in front of an archer, but arrows sometimes go astray."

Just then Anomen felt a hand upon his shoulder. So intent had he been upon his task that he had not heard Glorfindel approach. Of course, he might not have heard the elf-lord approach in any case. We are speaking of the balrog-slayer, after all.

"I have come to check on your progress," Glorfindel declared. Then he addressed the elflings. "Let us see what you have learned," he said.

The elflings stood in silent awe. Anomen's heart sank, for their performance would surely reflect upon his own. If they would not speak, Glorfindel would think that he had taught them nothing.

"You there," Glorfindel called to one of the elflings, "tell me one archery rule that you have learned today."

The elfling gulped but stammered an answer. "To, to, to wait for orders."

"Good," nodded the elf-lord. The elfling beamed and looked proudly toward a relieved Anomen, who smiled at him.

"What else have you learned today?" Glorfindel asked the elflings.

"To look about very carefully," volunteered a second elfling.

"Never shoot if you cannot clearly see your target," offered a third.

"Be sure to keep behind the firing line," added a fourth.

"Excellent," said Glorfindel. "You have learned well—no doubt because you have been taught well. That will be enough for the first day. It is very hot. Are there any elflings here who wish to swim?"

A shout arose from the assembled elflings, and it was obvious that swimming met with near universal approval. Only the Greenwood elfling remained silent, and Anomen supposed that was because he felt shy at being the only one of his kind. But Glorfindel was speaking again, and Anomen returned his attention to the balrog-slayer.

"Anomen, you know all the best places to swim hereabouts," Glorfindel said, a trace of a smile upon his face. "Escort these elflings to one of them. They may indulge themselves until noon, when they must return to the Hall."

"Yes, Lord Glorfindel," Anomen said, his own smile undisguised. He turned toward his pupils. "One last lesson," he said cheerfully. "We shall walk from the field, rather than run. There is always a chance that an arrow is embedded in the ground hereabouts, and you would not want to stumble into it. Never run on or near the training field."

The elflings nodded their understanding and obediently trailed Anomen from the field in a suitably staid fashion. He led them to a pond that he felt would be eminently suitable, for it was large enough to accommodate the lot of them, and among its attractions was a little island in the middle that Anomen and his foster-brothers had turned into a sort of fort, complete with a trove of slingshots that they used to fling pine cones at each other in the course of their skirmishes.

Once they arrived at this little lake, the elflings quickly stripped and dove in—all save one, that is. The little elf from Greenwood sat on the bank and looked longingly at the water. Anomen was eager to swim, but he hesitated. The little elf did not seem happy, and Anomen thought that perhaps he ought to see what was troubling him. 'A leader must consider the morale of his troops', he mused, 'and for the time being, I am the leader'. He went to sit by the side of the elfling. The elfling looked gratefully at him. 'How lonely he must feel', Anomen thought to himself.

"There were so many rules to go over today," Anomen began, "that we did not learn one another's names. I am Anomen."

The elfling nodded. "I heard Lord Glorfindel call you so."

"Then you have the advantage of me," said Anomen, smiling. "I pray that you will tell me yours."

"Tirndínen."

'That is a fitting name', thought Anomen, '_Silent_ _watcher'_.

"Well, Tirndínen, are you not hot?"

"Aye, I am."

"Then why do you not swim?"

"I do not know how," the elfling said unhappily. "I would wade, but, see, the water drops off directly."

"Had you no opportunity to learn? Was there no river or lake nearby?"

"My family lives very close to a great river, but no one swims in it. Anyone who touches its waters will fall asleep at once."

"Ah, yes," said Anomen. "I know of that river."

"You do? None of these other elflings knew of it."

"Oh," stammered Anomen, "I have heard it talked of by a messenger who carries dispatches between Rivendell and Greenwood." This was true, of course, but it did not change the fact that Anomen was personally acquainted with this river. However, it was not necessary that Tirndínen should know this.

"I think," said Anomen, recovering his equanimity, "that you may learn now. This lake will not make you sleepy. On the contrary, you will find its waters bracing!"

Tirndínen hesitated. "But it is so deep. I will sink straightaway!"

Anomen considered what was to done.

"Look you," he said at last. "Yonder is a good-sized branch. You hold one end; I shall hold the other. We shall go into the water, and you can cling to the branch as I give you instructions. By and by you can let go, but I shall make sure that the branch does not float away from you, so that you may seize hold of it any time you like."

Tirndínen liked this plan, and they acted upon it at once. By the time noon approached and they had to return to the Hall, Tirndínen was treading water with confidence. "Perhaps," Tirndínen said hopefully, "Lord Glorfindel will allow us to swim tomorrow as well."

"If he does," Anomen promised, "I shall give you another lesson. Soon you will be swimming as well as any of the others."

Fortunately, the days continued hot. Early each morning the elflings would assemble on the training field, where they would practice at their archery until Glorfindel dismissed them for their daily swim. Then, true to his word, Anomen would give Tirndínen a lesson. At last the day came when the little elfling was able to swim from the shore straight out to the island. Anomen swam beside him, of course, but never for a moment did it look as if the younger Elf would need his assistance. Delighted, Tirndínen pulled himself onto the island, which was filled with elflings variously occupied in roughhousing and tree-climbing. "This is so much better than sitting by myself on the shore," Tirndínen said happily. Triumphantly, he looked back toward his old perch, but then he suddenly gasped. "Anomen!" he cried.

Anomen looked back and gasped as well. Where Tirndínen had once sat, a wolf rested upon its haunches. At least Anomen thought it was a wolf. It was larger than any wolf he had ever seen, and its proportions were somewhat different, with its shoulder raised much higher than its haunches. If Anomen had ever seen a hyena, he would have compared the beast to that creature. He was not familiar with any hyenas, however, and so he had to settle for naming the beast after the animal in his ken that it most resembled. As he watched, it was joined by a second and then a third of its kind.

It was fortunate that all the elflings were either in the water or on the island. Anomen shouted and beckoned to those who were swimming, and soon all the younglings were gathered together on the isle, huddled around Anomen and looking back at the shore fearfully. The three beasts began pacing back and forth upon the shore, casting ravenous looks toward the island. Anomen knew that wolves had been known to enter the water to pull down their prey. These beasts could not be allowed to reach the island. Quickly he moved aside the rocks that hid the slingshots that he and his foster-brothers had cached. There, too, were three practice swords that they had pilfered from the armory. The slingshots were seven in number. Anomen quickly distributed six of them and ordered the elflings to gather as many stones as they could find. Two of the swords he gave to the pair of elflings who seemed the sturdiest. The other sword he kept for himself, along with one of the slingshots.

Their preparations were finished none too soon. The wolves had never left off pacing, and at last it seemed that hunger won out over any reluctance to enter the water. In they leaped and began to swim steadily toward the island.

The elflings readied their slingshots, but Anomen stayed their hands. "We must not waste our shots," he warned. "Wait until I give the order. Upon my command, aim for the eyes."

Stolidly, the elflings stood, waiting for Anomen to give the word. At last he judged that the wolves were near enough for any shot to take effect. "Now!" he shouted. A hail of stones fell upon the wolves. The missiles were well aimed, and two of the wolves, blinded, began to thrash frantically about in the water, in the end going into convulsions and sinking below the surface. The third, however, although blinded in one eye, surged forward. Anomen shouted the retreat for all the elflings save those with swords. Anomen positioned himself in the center and slightly to the advance of his two companions. "I will aim for its throat," he declared. "Then you two come in from the side."

The wolf was upon them and lurched up out of the water, its ravenous jaws gaping. Anomen sprang forward and thrust his sword straight down its gullet. The beast choked and convulsed, but its momentum was unchecked. With Anomen's arm in its maw, it came crashing down. His arm trapped and the weight of the beast upon him, Anomen felt the world go black.


	3. Chapter 3: Water Warrior

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Elfinabottle, Enigma Jade, Lilandriel, Joee, Jenetri, Dragonfly, Slayer9649, Avion Jade, Opalkitty, K'lara7, Windwraith, CAH, _and _Karri_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 3: Water-Warrior**

**…_wargs…unexpected…distressing…ill portent…countermeasures…scouts will depart at once…_**

Words swirled in Anomen's brain, and light flickered in and out of his consciousness as his eyelids fluttered. At length he forced his eyes completely open. He was in a room in the House of Healing. At the foot of his bed stood those whom he loved: Elrond, Erestor, Glorfindel, and Mithrandir. They were engaged in a whispered, urgent consultation, which they immediately broke off when they saw that Anomen was awake.

"My dear lad," exclaimed Mithrandir, coming at once to stand by the side of Anomen's bed. "Thank the Valar you are still in one piece. An arm that goes down a warg's gullet generally does not remain attached to its owner's shoulder!"

"Warg?" said Anomen confusedly.

"Never you mind that," said Erestor quickly, shooting an angry look at the wizard. "Regaining your strength should be the only thought to occupy your mind."

"Am I hurt very badly?"

"Not as badly as you might have been," said Glorfindel. "Your companions stabbed at the warg as you grappled with it, so it could not give its full attention to dismembering you."

"Glorfindel!" exclaimed Erestor indignantly.

"There is no need to shelter him from the truth," said Elrond calmly. "He confronted a warg in the flesh, aye, and bravely, too; surely he is capable of addressing one in the course of a conversation."

Elrond was right. Anomen was eager to learn more.

"What happened after I fainted?" he asked.

"Your companions made sure of the warg," replied Glorfindel, "and then carefully drew your arm from its jaw and dragged the beast from atop you. Then Nenmaethor swam to shore and ran for help.

Anomen was puzzled. Nenmaethor? _Water-warrior_? He did not remember any elfling who went by that name.

Glorfindel saw his puzzled expression. "Ah, I had forgotten. Formerly he was called Tirndínen, but his fellows renamed him on account of the way he cut through the water on his way to shore. An excellent swimmer, seemingly." Here Glorfindel winked at Anomen, and the young Elf felt a comfortable sort of warmth spreading throughout his chest. It was quickly replaced by a chill, however, as Anomen suddenly realized what would have occurred if Tirndínen had still been sitting upon the shore, alone and forlorn. Anomen gasped in horror at the dreadful image that took shape in his mind.

"But that is not what happened," said Elrond, who at once divined the cause of Anomen's distress. "Disaster was averted by your efforts, for you behaved responsibly, with both kindness and courage. Do not waste your thoughts upon what might have been, lest doing so rob you of the ability to face the future."

Anomen took a deep breath. His curiosity returned. "Those beasts, you called them wargs. What is a warg?"

"A warg is a species of wolf," Erestor began.

"Not so," interrupted Glorfindel. "Wolves we can live with; wargs we cannot. A warg is a creature of the Dark Lord."

Anomen shuddered. "How, how," he faltered.

"How did the beasts come to be within the bounds of Imladris?" Elrond finished his sentence for him. "We do not know whether they strayed within the borders, renegades perhaps, or whether they were scouts sent by their masters. As we speak, Glorfindel's scouts are scouring the land, seeking answers to our questions."

"And it is high time that I join them," declared Glorfindel. He laid a hand upon Anomen's good shoulder. "You have done well. Now rest and recover your strength." He turned to depart, but Anomen called to him.

"Lord Glorfindel, may I still assist with the elflings?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, assuredly," Glorfindel replied gravely, "for I find that you have become indispensable. I had not realized how burdensome it was to marshal so many younglings, and now I do not believe I could go back to my old ways." He respectfully inclined his head toward Anomen, and then strode away.

The warm feeling returned to Anomen's chest, and his face fairly glowed.

"When may I return to the training field?" he eagerly asked Elrond.

"When I deem you recovered," said Elrond, smiling.

"Mithrandir," Anomen appealed to the wizard, "have you a spell—"

"Anomen," the Istar gently chided, "you know that my magic is not to be trifled with—witness the events that but lately took place in the garden!"

"Do not fret, Anomen," Erestor offered. "I am sure that I will be able to find something to keep you occupied.

Anomen sighed and sank back upon his pillow. Oh, yes, doubtless Erestor would find some way to 'occupy' him—probably something along the lines of a massive tome devoted to the history of all Eriador. Just then there was a knock upon the door.

"Ah, Nenmaethor," said Elrond. "You are very welcome in this room."

"Thank you, Lord Elrond. I passed Lord Glorfindel in the corridor, and he said you would speak with me."

"Yes, I need a messenger, and I am told that not only are you a fast swimmer, but you are a fleet runner."

Nenmaethor beamed just as Anomen had done.

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Your duty shall be to remain here with Anomen so that you will be available to fetch whatsoever or whomsoever he may require. Is that task agreeable to you?"

"Oh, yes, Lord Elrond!"

"Excellent. We Elves will now take our leave. Anomen, you may send Nenmaethor for us if you are in pain or want for anything."

"Yes, Ada."

As soon as the older Elves were gone, Nenmaethor began to speak with great rapidity. "Anomen you were so brave you drove your sword right down the throat of a warg and wargs are fearsome creatures and everybody says even grown Elves are afraid of them but you—"

"Nenmaethor," laughed Anomen, "stop for breath, else you will faint. And then _I_ shall have to be the runner who fetches _you_ assistance."

Nenmaethor took a deep breath. "Well, you were very brave, is all. You are surely going to be great elf-lord when you grown up, just like Glorfindel. Why, you even look like Glorfindel. At first I thought your hair was light brown, but now I see that it is golden and the very same shade as his hair."

Nenmaethor was correct. Anomen's hair had been tinged with ink when he began his apprenticeship, but enough days had passed so that it had returned to its former color. No doubt this metamorphosis had also been assisted by the daily plunge into the lake. Nenmaethor studied the golden-haired elfling thoughtfully, and an idea suddenly sprang into his mind.

"Anomen, the Lord Elrond is your foster-father, but who is your birth father?"

"That is never spoken of," Anomen said uncomfortably.

"But you do know your parentage, don't you?"

"Yes," said Anomen, "but it is not necessary that it be known by others."

"It's Glorfindel, isn't it," Nenmaethor said excitedly. "He is the only Elf hereabouts with golden hair—oh!" All at once Nenmaethor hit upon a reason for Anomen's reticence. Glorfindel had never been espoused, so any child of his would be a 'gift of nature', as the Elves were wont to say. Usually such a child was acknowledged by his father, but apparently Glorfindel had not chosen to do so in Anomen's case.

"I _am_ sorry," Nenmaethor apologized. "I did not mean to say anything hurtful."

Anomen wondered whether he should try to disabuse Nenmaethor of the notion that Glorfindel had fathered him, but after a moment he abandoned the idea. If he convinced Nenmaethor that he had not been sired by the balrog-slayer, then perchance the elfling, his curiosity unabated, would cast about for another candidate. If he continued puzzling over Anomen's parentage, he might at length draw conclusions that would imperil Anomen's continued residence in Imladris.

"You haven't said anything hurtful, Nenmaethor, but you must promise never again to speak of this matter."

With an air of high seriousness, Nenmaethor swore to keep silent, but then his face lit up. He and Anomen now shared a secret. What a delightful development! It made the little elfling feel very special to be in Anomen's confidence and to know something that none of the other elflings did.

As for Anomen, he was quite satisfied at the turn the conversation had taken. He had avoided telling an outright lie, but had merely allowed Nenmaethor to continue believing that Glorfindel was his father. And what harm could there be in that? The tale would go no further, for Nenmaethor had promised to say nothing. Yes, the conversation had concluded in quite a satisfactory fashion. Now another matter began to preoccupy the young Elf. He shifted uncomfortably on his mattress. Elrond had spread a soothing poultice on the elfling's arm, but its effect was beginning to wear off.

"Is something wrong?" Nenmaethor asked anxiously.

"I think," said Anomen, trying to speak lightly, "that you will now have an opportunity to demonstrate your abilities as a runner. Will you seek out Lord Elrond and tell him that I fear the poultice may need to be changed?"

Nenmaethor truly was a fast runner, for it seemed to Anomen that the elfling had hardly gone before he returned with Elrond. The elf-lord unbound Anomen's arm and examined it.

"This deep gash may be at risk of infection, Anomen. I will need to clean it anew."

Anomen winced at the thought, but he resolved to behave stoically because Nenmaethor was in attendance. He was touched at having won the younger Elf's respect, and he did not wish to do anything to shake his confidence in him.

As Elrond tended to Anomen's arm, Nenmaethor stayed close, handing Elrond whatsoever was necessary almost before Elrond asked for it.

"Thank you, Nenmaethor," Elrond said at last, impressed by the elfling's quickness. "You have watched with great attentiveness," he continued. "Almost you have read my mind, so carefully you have observed. It is plain you were called Tirndínen with good reason! Tell me, have you ever desired to study the art of the healer? Your careful attentiveness, seconded by your quickness and curiosity, make you well suited for such a craft."

Nenmaethor's reply was uttered in a wistful tone. "There are no healers of any account in Greenwood to whom I could be apprenticed. When the need is great, we send to Lothlórien."

"But you are not in Greenwood at the moment," Elrond pointed out. "You are in Imladris, where the art of the healer has been preserved. Whilst you are here, you may as well learn not only how to inflict injuries but how to treat them. It is a rare battle from which our folk escape entirely unscathed!"

"I would very much like to learn as much as I may of that art," Nenmaethor replied earnestly. "Would you recommend me to a master, Lord Elrond?" Anomen, who knew what the elf-lord was about, giggled at the innocence of the younger Elf, but he fell silent when Elrond cocked an eyebrow warningly. Then, returning his attention to Nenmaethor, the elf-lord replied with a gravity to match the elfling's.

"I must admit that I am not disinterested in this matter. I myself am in need of an apprentice. Anomen, while he understands the rudiments of my art, is destined to win his fame on the battlefield. I do not doubt but that his deeds as a warrior will be such as will be celebrated even in the tales of Men." Here Nenmaethor shot a triumphant look at Anomen, who grimaced. Elrond pretended not to notice the exchange. "You have yet to meet my twin sons, Elrohir and Elladan," the elf-lord continued, "but when they return from visiting their grandparents in Lothlórien, it will not take you long to discover that neither is suited to the particular sort of concentration required of a healer. Elrohir in particular is ill-equipped for the task! I would be very grateful, then, if you would agree to serve as my apprentice. My need is great."

"Greenwood's need is great as well," Nenmaethor replied excitedly. "They want healers as well as warriors. I am a very little elf for my age, and that is why my Adar and Naneth sent me here. They said that if I were trained by Lord Glorfindel, I might make up in skill what I lack in size. But wouldn't that still be true if I became a healer?"

"I believe it would," Elrond replied. "We are agreed, then. You shall still spend a certain portion of each day on the training field, for all Elves must be prepared to fight in the last defense of their homes, should such a need ever arise. But the most part of each day you shall spend under my tutelage."

Nenmaethor suddenly looked a little uneasy.

"Something troubles you, ion-nîn?" said Elrond inquiringly.

"Shall I have no time to swim?" Nenmaethor said unhappily.

Elrond smiled. "It would not be right to deprive you of the opportunity to swim. For you are the Silent-watcher and the Water-warrior at one and the same time. You do not have to give up one to be the other. Here Elrond suddenly looked at Anomen, who had the uncomfortable feeling that Elrond was directing his words not only at Nenmaethor but at him as well. He developed a sudden interest in his hand, flexing it as if checking to see how his wound had affected its range of motion."

"If you don't leave off doing that," Elrond said mildly, "you will do yourself an injury."

Anomen stilled his hand, but he could not still his mind. Caught between the Elrond's words and Nenmaethor's theories about his parentage, he found himself confronting the matter of his own identity when he very much wished to avoid doing so. 'I think right now I had rather be in the company of a warg', Anomen thought ruefully as Elrond continued to gaze searchingly at him. As there was no prospect of that, however, the young Elf had to make do with yawning as if he were tired. Elrond smiled and decided that enough had been said for the time being. As he took his leave, though, the elf-lord looked back and gave Anomen one final knowing look. Catching the elf-lord's glance, Anomen knew that the matter was not yet at an end.


	4. Chapter 4: Fathers and Sons

**Meleth-nîn**—**My Love **

**Miluidî**—**Kind Lady (milui—kind, loving, friendly + dî—lady, woman) **

**Penidhren**—**Thoughtful One (pen—one + idhren—thoughtful, wise, pondering)**

**Mellon-nîn—My friend**

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Lilandriel, Joee, Dragonfly, Avion Jade, K'lara7, Windwraith, CAH, _and _Karri_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 4: Fathers and Sons**

Between Elrond and Nenmaethor, Anomen was the beneficiary of the finest of care. Elves heal quickly, moreover, and so, given both Anomen's natural recuperative powers and the nursing he received, it is not to be wondered at that the young Elf was soon up and about. To everyone's relief and satisfaction, then, life seemed to settle back into its former routine. The most innocent of actions, however, soon led to new complications.

Messengers were sent from Rivendell to Lothlórien, and thence to Greenwood, with fair frequency, and whenever one set out Nenmaethor was sure to give him a letter for his parents. That is how it happened that news of the warg attack came to Thranduil's kingdom. "We did not send Tirndínen to Rivendell to be devoured by wargs," worried his mother Miluidî as she anxiously studied the latest letter from her son. "I think we ought to bring him back to Greenwood straightaway!"

"Where he may be devoured by spiders," her spouse Penidhren pointed out.

"Oh, spiders," Miluidî said dismissively. "They are as nothing when compared to wargs." Now it happens that Miluidî had no firsthand knowledge of wargs, but, as do many Men, she believed in the truth of this saying: 'better the devil one knows than the devil one doesn't'.

"Meleth-nîn," Penidhren argued, "it is quite true that our son—who now wishes to be called Nenmaethor, I hope you remember—has encountered danger whilst in Imladris. Yet he may encounter no less peril in Greenwood. Moreover, you must concede that the elfling in charge of his cohort proved adept in the defense of his wards."

"Yes, the elfling! What I want to know is why no adult was on hand. Questionable supervision, if you ask me."

"Elflings cannot always remain in the company of their elders, for if they did, they should never become elders themselves. And you must agree that it speaks well of Rivendell that one so young should prove so capable. This is the very reason that we sent Nenmaethor thence, that he should become as daring and resourceful as this Elf Anomen."

"He will have plenty of opportunities to become daring and resourceful right here in Greenwood. After all, _we_ have got spiders."

Having pooh-poohed spiders as less dangerous than wargs, this part of Miluidî's argument was not really very sensible, but a mother is not required to be sensible in the defense of her offspring. Stubborn and indefatigable will generally do. Thus, no matter the arguments offered by Penidhren for leaving Nenmaethor where he was, Miluidî would not give over arguing in favor of his return.

"Meleth-nîn," Penidhren replied one day, "our son is learning to be a healer as well as a warrior. He will be invaluable to the king."

"He'll want healing himself if he remains in that dreadful place."

"He has become good friends with the lad Anomen. It would be a shame to part them so soon."

"There are friends to be had in Greenwood as well as Imladris—and _our_ elflings descend stairs in the proper fashion. I would not have our son associate with ruffians!"

"A son of Elrond is hardly likely to turn out a ruffian."

"Do not be so certain! I have heard dreadful tales about that Elrohir. Perhaps this Anomen will be just like him."

"Judging from our son's letters, the lad does not resemble Elrohir in the slightest. Anomen seems a very thoughtful young Elf, and no one has ever accused Elrohir of _that_!"

"Thoughtful, you call it. Like as not Nenmaethor has mistaken a secretive disposition for an introspective one!"

Worn out by the interminable appeals of his spouse, Penidhren at last was forced to offer a compromise.

"I will travel to Imladris and see how our son is getting on. If his life or his prospects are indeed in peril, I swear to you that I shall bring him back with me when I return to Greenwood."

To Penidhren's dismay—although not, perhaps, to his surprise—his wife's words lost none of their urgency. "You must depart immediately," she exclaimed.

"I must first ask Thranduil's leave," Penidhren reminded her. For he was, in fact, one of the King's counselors—a lesser one, to be sure, but still obligated to seek the King's blessing before absenting himself from the kingdom. As soon as he might, he went to Thranduil's Presence Chamber and waited patiently whilst the King listened to the appeals and entreaties of his subjects. At last Thranduil had adjudicated all cases and sank back into his seat with a sigh. With a respectful demeanor, Penidhren drew near.

"My Lord."

Thranduil forced himself to raise his head. "Yes, Penidhren?" he murmured apathetically.

"My Lord, my wife is concerned about the safety of our son, who has journeyed to Imladris to receive weapons-training at the hands of Glorfindel. She desires that I should travel to Imladris to check on his welfare, and I would beg leave for this journey."

Apathetic no longer, Thranduil had winced at the word 'son', and his seneschal, Gilglîr, who stood nearby, watched anxiously, fearing that the King would react badly at a request that must remind him of his own lost child. "Your son?" the monarch said softly. "I did not know that you had a son."

Penidhren swallowed uneasily. It is true that he had never informed Thranduil of Nenmaethor's birth. In former years, it had been customary for courtiers to bring newborn infants into the King's presence, there to receive his blessing and a gift at his hand. This ceremony had been abandoned, however, soon after the disappearance and presumed death of the Prince. Now courtiers were careful to keep their offspring out of the way of the King. So successful were they that one would hardly know that any elflings dwelt within the Great Hall. The younglings were lodged and educated in quarters as far removed from Thranduil's as possible, and they were led in and out of the Hall via corridors that the King never trod.

Gilglîr stepped forward. "I believe, my Lord, that Penidhren's son was born when you were preoccupied by trade negotiations with the Dwarves of Erebor. Doubtless he did not want to distract you with news of a domestic nature."

"So thoughtful a counselor," Thranduil said sardonically. The King knew well enough why he never heard tell of any births within the Great Hall. He waved his hand languidly in a gesture of permission. "You have my leave, Penidhren. See to the safety of your son. As a father ought to," he added bitterly. Then he arose and strode from the room without another word.

"I _am_ sorry," Penidhren said to Gilglîr remorsefully. The seneschal shook his head and clapped the other counselor upon the shoulder reassuringly.

"It is not your fault, Penidhren. Thranduil lives in a hell of his own devising, and he alone possesses the key to its door. Now go and prepare for your journey."

Whilst this conversation was taking place, far away in Rivendell the matter of sons and fathers was also a topic of interest. Nenmaethor had completed his archery exercises and was standing beside Elrond, who had come out to the training field at the request of Glorfindel, who wished to apprise him of the progress of his students.

As Elf and elfling watched, Glorfindel strode over to Anomen's position. Although Anomen mentored a cohort of younger elflings, he was still a pupil himself, and the balrog-slayer began to critique his performance. To Nenmaethor, Glorfindel seemed to treat Anomen with great strictness, much more so than the other elflings. Absent-mindedly, forgetting that Elrond stood by his side, Nenmaethor spoke his thoughts aloud.

"Glorfindel is ever so hard upon Anomen. He does not allow Anomen to overlook even the slightest mistake."

"Of course," Nenmaethor added hastily, becoming aware of Elrond's eye upon him, "that is only natural. I am sure Lord Glorfindel must be at pains not to show favoritism."

Elrond gave the elfling a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other. He supposed Nenmaethor might mean that Glorfindel could not be seen to treat one of Elrond's sons any differently than any of his other pupils. But that would make sense only if Glorfindel treated Elrohir and Elladan as strictly as he treated Anomen. But he did not. Surely Nenmaethor was acquainted with that fact, for the twins had lately returned from their visit to Lothlórien and the Greenwood elfling had had an opportunity to see that Glorfindel demanded more of Anomen than of either of Elrond's birth sons.

Elrond of course had long understood why Glorfindel demanded more of Anomen. Given the young Elf's skill with bow and knife, the balrog-slayer had greater expectations of him. Nenmaethor could not know that, however. Suddenly a smile quirked the corners of Elrond's mouth. 'I wonder', he thought to himself, 'what notion Nenmaethor has taken into his head about the relationship between Glorfindel and Anomen. Is it possible that he thinks Glorfindel is Anomen's father?" This was an amusing thought, and Elrond knew that he must twit Glorfindel about it at the earliest opportunity. After dinner, as the two friends stood upon a terrace enjoying the night's meteor shower, Elrond commenced.

"Glorfindel," the elf-lord asked gravely, "do you not wish that your weapon were sheathed more often?"

"Oh, yes, very much so. It is a great pleasure to sheath one's weapon."

"A great pleasure."

"Yes, an exceedingly great pleasure."

"And you never fail to avail yourself of an opportunity to so situate your weapon."

"Of course not, Elrond. Why ever would I?"

"Yet you are always willing to perform when called upon to do so."

"I should hope I would be!"

"It is not everyone who can hold himself erect after being called upon to perform repeatedly on so many occasions."

Glorfindel looked suspiciously upon his friend.

"Elrond, we _are_ talking about swords, are we not."

"After a fashion, yes."

"After a fashion?"

"Glorfindel," smiled Elrond, "I will speak in metaphors no longer. There comes a time in an elfling's life when he realizes that, _biologically_ speaking, it is not in fact necessary to be espoused in order to sire offspring."

"And your point is?"

"I very much suspect that your exploits _off_ the field have become an object of speculation to at least one elfling," smiled Elrond.

"Oh ho!" chortled Glorfindel. "Truly?"

"I think so, and I also think that said elfling believes you to be the father of at least one youngling."

"Really? And of whom am I the progenitor?"

"Anomen."

"Anomen?"

Elrond waited expectantly for Glorfindel to laugh. Instead, the balrog-slayer became silent and grave.

"You do not find this amusing?" Elrond asked, surprised.

"No, I do not."

"Then I will say no more about the matter." Elrond at once turned the conversation in another direction entirely. "Ah," he observed, "that meteor has left an exceptionally long trail."

Later that evening, as Elrond lay drifting into elven dreams, he allowed himself to wonder about Glorfindel's reaction. "I suppose," he mused, "that Glorfindel may feel that speculations about his venereal deeds will detract from his dignity and authority. But, no, that can't be it at all! He was amused until he learned that Anomen was the elfling presumed to be his son." Still perplexed, Elrond at last fell asleep.

Several weeks later, Penidhren rode through the gates of Rivendell. Glorfindel and Elrond both being outside the Hall, he was greeted by Erestor. "The father of Nenmaethor," enthused Erestor, smiling. "I superintend the lad's education when he is not otherwise occupied by the Lords Elrond and Glorfindel. He is a delightful pupil—delightful! Why, he memorized the Silmarilion faster than any elfling I have ever taught, and the Silmarilion, I am sure you must know, is a very long tale!"

Penidhren hid a smile. Nenmaethor had had much to say in his letters about the lessons that he had to endure with Erestor. "I thank you for the care you have taken with my son," he said politely. "I am sure that you have been very thorough."

Erestor beamed. As everyone in Imladris knew, he prided himself on his 'thoroughness'.

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Erestor summoned Figwit and bade him go to the garden and inform Elrond that a guest had arrived. Elrond quickly came into the Hall and welcomed Penidhren to Imladris. "I shall have a room prepared for you at once," the elf-lord declared. "And you must be anxious to bathe and change. Figwit, please take our guest to a bathing room where he will find ample hot water."

"If you please," Penidhren said politely, "I am very anxious to see my son. I shall be glad to delay my bath until after I have done so."

"Of course," agreed Elrond. "I myself shall escort you to the training fields, for no doubt that is where Nenmaethor will be at that time of day." Elrond was correct. At one of the training fields they found Nenmaethor in the middle of his archery exercises. Penidhren was careful not to draw attention to himself until his son had shot off all his arrows—with great accuracy, the Greenwood Elf proudly noticed—but then he stepped forward and waved, catching Nenmaethor's eye. "Anomen," said the young Elf excitedly, "my father is here. May I have leave to go to him?" Anomen gladly gave permission for his friend to leave the firing line, albeit with a bit of wistfulness. 'Would that I had a father who would journey from Greenwood to check on my progress', he thought to himself as Nenmaethor walked swiftly toward his father.

Penidhren greeted his son affectionately, with both hugs and kisses, and listened patiently as Nenmaethor rattled on cheerfully about all the events that had taken place since his last letter. Anomen of course figured in many of his tales, and Nenmaethor soon pointed him out. "Yonder is Anomen," he said, pointing to where his friend now stood adjusting the grip of an elfling archer.

Nenmaethor's father noticed straightaway that Anomen had golden hair, and this fact aroused the Elf's interest. Nenmaethor, mindful of his promise to Anomen, had never described his friend's appearance in his letters for fear that his parents might become curious as to Anomen's parentage. Perhaps it would have better, though, if Nenmaethor _had_ provided something along the lines of a description. If he had, Penidhren would not have been so surprised at the sight of Anomen's golden braids, and then it is possible that his curiosity would have been the less. First, the color was exceedingly rare amongst the Elves of Imladris. Second, Penidhren had been under the impression that Anomen did hale from that place. So how did it happen, Penidhren wondered, that Anomen had hair of that hue? Who were his parents?

It was of course true that Glorfindel had golden hair, but Penidhren did not think of him straightaway. Glorfindel was famed throughout elvendom, and Penidhren had never heard tell of his having offspring. Instead, the Greenwood Elf considered whether he might have been mistaken in his belief that Anomen was an Imladris Elf. Perhaps Anomen had come from Lothlórien, where golden hair was common. Penidhren studied Anomen carefully. The Greenwood counselor had visited Lothlórien many times on behalf on King Thranduil, and he thought that he knew all the Lorien elflings. Yet Anomen did not resemble any of them. Still, the lad did remind him of _someone_—exactly who, however, he couldn't seem to drag forth from his memory. Nenmaethor's father wrinkled his face as he tried to recall who it was that most resembled Anomen.

After Elrond had guided Nenmaethor's father to the training field, he had gone to stand by the side of Glorfindel, who was contemplating with satisfaction how much the novice archers had improved over the past several months. Elrond placed his hand upon the balrog-slayer's arm and nodded toward Penidhren.

"Nenmaethor's father has come, mellon-nîn."

Glorfindel shifted his attention to the visitor and saw at once that he was intently studying Anomen.

"I understand from what Nenmaethor has said that his father is one of Thranduil's counselors," the balrog-slayer observed to Elrond.

"Yes," Elrond said simply. The two friends exchanged glances and as one began to walk casually in the direction of Penidhren and Nenmaethor. Soon they had drawn near enough to be able to overhear the conversation between father and son. The older Elf was trying to draw out the younger one on the subject of his friend.

"He seems an admirable young Elf," Penidhren was saying. "I am sure he has been well raised. Who are his parents?"

"He is the foster son of Lord Elrond," Nenmaethor answered evasively.

"Yes, but who raised him before he was sent here to be educated?" said the father, who thought that, as was not uncommon, Anomen might have been sent away by his parents to benefit from instruction in the household of a respected lord. After all, Nenmaethor himself had been packed off for that very reason.

"I do not know that he has ever dwelt anywhere but here," Nenmaethor answered.

Hs father was nonplussed. If Anomen was from Rivendell itself, then why would he have become a part of Elrond's household? Why could he not dwell with his parents and merely present himself upon the training field each morning to receive instruction in the bow and the sword? The Greenwood Elf stared hard at Anomen. If only he could remember the name of the Elf that Anomen resembled!

Elrond was thoroughly alarmed by now. Had Penidhren begun to suspect that Anomen had originally dwelt in Greenwood? If so, how far would his suppositions go? As one of Thranduil's advisors, Penidhren would be well-acquainted with the King's appearance. Would his thoughts tend in that direction? Even if they did not, at the very least, he was likely, upon his return to Greenwood, to let it be known that a mysterious Greenwood elfling might be residing in Rivendell. Questions would be asked. Beseechingly, Elrond looking at Glorfindel. The balrog-slayer gave an almost imperceptible nodded and went into action. He strolled directly up to Penidhren and his son. "Good day, Nenmaethor," he said. "Lord Elrond tells me that your father has come to visit. Shall I assume that this is he?"

"Yes, Lord Glorfindel," Nenmaethor replied proudly. "This is my father. His name is Penidhren, and he is counselor to King Thranduil."

"I am very glad to meet you," Glorfindel said to Penidhren, "for I have desired to tell you that you are blessed with a son who brings you great credit."

Nenmaethor's father bowed. "I thank you, Lord Glorfindel. If he does, however, I am sure that it is in part because of the excellent training he is receiving, both from you and from Anomen son of….?" Penidhren paused and looked hopefully at Glorfindel.

"Ah, yes, Anomen," Glorfindel began. "Any father would be proud to own him as a son. Truth be told, I would be glad to own him as my own, were it only possible. But," he continued, lowering his voice, "it is not always permitted to utter what one may desire to say. All sorts of—complications—might ensue." Here Glorfindel winked conspiratorially at Penidhren.

'Oh ho', thought Nenmaethor's father to himself, 'so that's the way of it! _Glorfindel_ is the lad's father!' The Greenwood Elf smiled broadly at Glorfindel. "True, some things—some persons—are better left unacknowledged," he said, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper.

"Yes," Glorfindel whispered in return. "Let us imagine that a warrior has made enemies enough for a lifetime—for two lifetimes, even! If such a one had a son, he would not want it to be generally known, lest his child become the object of vengeance."

"Indeed, he would not!"

"I can well understand," Glorfindel said gravely, "why Thranduil would choose you as one of his counselors. You are wise and discreet." Here the balrog-slayer bowed low and took his leave, and returned to the side of Elrond, who had stood with his back to the little conclave but who had nevertheless overheard every word. "I am sorry to have had to impose open you, mellon-nîn," he said to Glorfindel regretfully as the two friends walked back toward the Hall.

"Impose upon me? Baugh! You have done no such thing. The only one imposed upon is Penidhren, and he was eager enough to jump to conclusions. Elrond, did you truly think it would trouble me to lay claim to Anomen? If it were ever to become certain that the lad has no blood-kin, then you would not long continue as his foster-father. Indeed, you would not, for I would at once make the ride to Lothlórien to petition Galadriel for the right to adopt Anomen as my son. And," the balrog-slayer added cheerfully, "she likely would have no trouble granting my petition, for I suspect that it shall soon be generally bruited about that he _is_ my son."

"Do you not fear that you would have to race me to Caras Galadhon?" retorted Elrond teasingly.

"My horse is faster," deadpanned Glorfindel.

"Why, then," asked Elrond, suddenly growing serious, "were you so offended that night when I told you of the rumor that you had fathered Anomen?"

"I was not offended."

"You ceased laughing as soon as Anomen's name was mentioned. You did not seem at all amused!"

"True, I was not amused, but only because I was in fact moved by the notion of being Anomen's father."

"As Elrohir would say," observed Elrond ruefully, "_I_ am a troll-brain. I should have known that you would not object to being known as Anomen's sire."

Glorfindel clapped his friend upon the shoulder. "Troll-brain, eh? I shall have to keep that epithet in mind for future use."

Later that evening, Penidhren, alone in his guest room, also gave some thought to the future. 'So Anomen is the son of Glorfindel', he mused. 'An Elf of such parentage may someday be a powerful ally for those who are his friends—and among them Nenmaethor. Yes, my son shall remain here, for it will be very much in his interest to do so'.

It was therefore a very satisfied and complacent Penidhren who set off for Greenwood a few weeks later. By this time all the members of his elven escort knew the 'secret' of Anomen's parentage, and as soon as they rode past the borders of Imladris, the matter came under general discussion. Penidhren listened to one such conversation that was taking place between the two Elves riding immediately ahead of him.

"I must say that I am relieved to know that he is Glorfindel's son. When I first set eyes upon the lad, I had the uneasy feeling that Thranduil's son had come back to life."

"Aye, or that his unhappy ghost had at last found a place to call home, as he did not have during life."

Listening to the others, Penidhren chuckled. 'That's it', he laughed to himself. '_Thranduil_ is the one Anomen reminded me of! How fortunate that I learned straightaway that Glorfindel is his father. Had I not, I might have embarrassed myself quite badly by blurting out some comment about the similarity in appearance between Anomen and the King. Pity, though', he added to himself, 'that the resemblance is a mere chimera, for the lad is a goodly one, and no one, not even a king, would hesitate to claim him for his own'.

Penidhren spurred his horse forward until he rode by the others. "You must be careful," he warned the Elves, "never to mention that Glorfindel's son bears a superficial resemblance to the King. Such knowledge would be hurtful to him, for it would remind him of his loss. Indeed, perhaps it would be best if, in the presence of the King, no mention whatsoever were made of the existence of this elfling."

The other Elves saw the wisdom of Penidhren's words, and thus it was that, although it became generally known throughout Greenwood that the mighty balrog-slayer had a son, news of this 'fact' was late in coming to the ears of Thranduil, and when the King did hear of it, it was under circumstances that did not arouse his suspicions. Thanks to Glorfindel, then, and a dollop of good luck, Anomen was able to continue leading his life undisturbed by inquiries from Greenwood. Meanwhile, the elders of Imladris were able to congratulate themselves on having avoided an awkward situation. For one could only imagine what unpleasantness would have ensued had Thranduil discovered that his son dwelt in Rivendell. A nightmare—that is what it would have been. A nightmare.


	5. Chapter 5: Tug of War

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Lilandriel, Enigma Jade, Elfinabottle, Opal Kitty, Apsenniel, Krissy Wonder, Dragonfly, Avion Jade, Windwraith, _and _CAH_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly**

**Chapter 5: Tug of War**

Several weeks after Penidhren had departed from Rivendell, Elrond and Glorfindel were again standing on a balcony upon an evening, this time to admire the Northern Lights, or, as the Elves called them, the Dance of the Sky Butterflies. "Elrond," Glorfindel said as casually as he could, "let us imagine—just for the sake of discussion, mind you!—that Penidhren had _not_ ridden away believing that I am Anomen's father. Let us imagine that he suspected someone else to be the lad's progenitor. Let me see—why, I could easily see him settling upon a Greenwood Elf as Anomen's Adar! Anomen's hair color is not unknown in that kingdom, as I am sure you know. Let us assume, then, that there exists a Greenwood Elf who long ago misplaced a golden-haired son. Let us also assume that Penidhren goes to this Elf and reports that a mysterious elfling, father unknown, sits at the table of Elrond in Imladris. The bereaved Greenwood Elf shortly thereafter comes galloping through the gates of Rivendell to check upon the truth of Penidhren's report and to ascertain the identity of this elfling. If such an event were to come to pass, what would you do, Elrond? Remember that I am, of course, speaking hypothetically," Glorfindel added hastily.

Elrond shut his eyes tightly and pressed his fingertips to his eyebrows. This scenario had in fact occurred to him. The previous night he had had a very involved dream in which the bereaved Elf had indeed ridden posthaste up to the doors of Elrond's Hall. In his waking mind he could still see the approach of this rider as clearly as if the events of his dream—his nightmare!—had happened under the eye of the noonday sun. Fortunately, he had not been taken unawares, for in his dream Glorfindel had been on patrol. Espying the approaching party of Greenwood Elves, and recognizing who rode at their head, he had sent Lindir back to warn Rivendell.

"Ride as fast as you can," the balrog-slayer had ordered his messenger. "It is the King of Greenwood who approaches, and Lord Elrond will want to make appropriate preparations." Innocent as to the import of these words, Lindir had obeyed with alacrity, and Elrond had had a few hours in which to decide what to do.

After he had received the news, Elrond at first could only pace back and forth whilst he considered his options, each as undesirable as the other. If Thranduil demanded his son and Elrond yielded him, Thranduil would be mollified. But what of Anomen? Was the lad ready to return to Greenwood? Elrond did not think so. If he concealed Anomen from Thranduil, then, he would be protecting the elfling from an ordeal he was not mature enough to face. Yet by doing so, he would be wronging Thranduil. Ai! This would be a dilemma for even the Wisest of the Wise. At last, Elrond decided to stall for time whilst he continued to consider the matter. 'Anomen is a shy lad', Elrond told himself, 'and Thranduil is a formidable figure. It would be best if Anomen were not dragged straightaway into meeting the King of Greenwood. Mithrandir departs upon the hour on a journey to Rhosgobel. Perhaps he can be prevailed upon to take Anomen with him. I know that Radagast is fond of Anomen and would not object if Mithrandir brought him along. That would take Anomen to Greenwood, of course, but to the southern half, miles from the portion ruled by Thranduil. In any event, it hardly matters, as Thranduil will be here in Rivendell'.

Elrond hurried to Mithrandir's chamber. As he arrived at its door, the wizard stepped over its threshold. In his hand he clutched his staff, and over his shoulder was slung the small bag in which he carried his few necessities.

"Mithrandir," cried Elrond, "take Anomen on this journey, I beg of you!"

"What has he done now?" sighed the wizard. "Put dye in the fountain? Glued the pages of one of Erestor's manuscripts? Braided together the twins' hair? Out with it, Elrond. What mischief has he gotten himself into that necessitates his immediate removal from the Hall?"

"No mischief, my friend. Thranduil is on his way. I fear that Penidhren has told him something that has made the King curious about Anomen."

"Well, then," Mithrandir said briskly, "I shall meet you at the gate upon the instant. Tell Anomen not to bother packing. I shall procure whatever is needful from the villages that we pass."

Elrond hastened to the library, where Anomen sat at lessons with Nenmaethor and the twins. He seized Anomen by the wrist and drew him to his feet. "You must come with me at once," he said urgently.

"But he hasn't finished memorizing—" began Erestor.

"Never mind that," called Elrond over his shoulder as he dragged an amazed Anomen out the door. "Hurry!" he urged the lad.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Anomen, who was becoming frightened.

"Mithrandir will explain later. You're going on a journey with him. You are always begging to be allowed to accompany him. Aren't you glad to finally get your wish?"

Anomen was too confused to be glad. "Shan't I pack?" he cried as he realized that they were making straight for the gate.

"No! no! Mithrandir will provide you with whatever you need. Hurry!"

Running by now, they arrived at the gate, where Mithrandir awaited them. Elrond's grip on Anomen's wrist was exchanged for the wizard's. Mithrandir took one great stride forward, and Anomen took two to keep up. To Elrond's dismay, at that very moment Thranduil's party broke from the forest, their horses lathered, the Greenwood Elves having galloped the final stage at the urging of the King. The King of Greenwood recognized his son at once. With a cry of mingled rage and relief, he leaped from his horse and seized Anomen's free wrist. Reflexively, Mithrandir pulled Anomen toward him, and Thranduil instinctively reacted by yanking the lad in his direction. Elrond, whose actions were equally automatic, seized Mithrandir around his waist and lent his strength to the wizard's.

This tug of war went on for several minutes until a terrified Anomen found his voice. "You're hurting me! You're hurting me!" he screamed.

Horrified, the adults all released their grips, and Anomen bolted for the forest. Thranduil recovered first. "After him!" he shouted to his riders.

"Are you mad?" shouted Elrond. "You can't mean to run him down with horses!"

"The first Elf who stirs," bellowed Mithrandir, "I shall turn his horse into an ass—aye, and the rider, too!"

Thranduil's Elves had wheeled about and begun to ride toward the forest, but at Mithrandir's words, they reined in their horses and looked over their shoulders nervously.

Wizard, King, and Elf-lord stood glaring at each other, and Elrond found himself spluttering like a petulant man-child. "Look what you have done!" he shouted at Thranduil.

"You. Have. My. Son." Thranduil replied through gritted teeth.

"Not anymore I don't," Elrond shot back angrily.

Mithrandir took a deep breath to settle himself. "At the moment, nobody has him, and if we don't calm ourselves we are _all_ likely to lose him forever."

This had the desired effect. Everyone fell silent, and Thranduil, who had been very red, turned pale. "What shall we do?" he said in a voice so tiny that it might have passed for Anomen's. Elrond felt a pang. 'Even if Thranduil has not been an ideal father', he thought to himself, 'he is not without love for his son'.

Wizard looked at King and King looked at Elf-Lord, who looked at Wizard. "Well," said Mithrandir impatiently, "is this the best we can do: stare at one another?"

"First we need to find him," said Elrond.

"I _never_ would have thought of that," said Mithrandir sardonically.

"Sarcasm won't help," said Elrond angrily.

"It already has," Mithrandir pointed out.

"Let us not expend our energy quarreling," interrupted Thranduil. Surprised that such a sensible suggestion should be uttered by the King of Greenwood, Elf-Lord and Wizard at once ceased sparring.

"Where is Glorfindel?" asked Mithrandir. "If there is anyone who can track Anomen, it is he."

"He cannot be far behind my riders," said Thranduil. "We drew ahead of him only a few miles back."

Even as he spoke, they heard the sound of hoof beats, and shortly thereafter Glorfindel and his troop cantered into the clearing. Glorfindel looked as pale as Thranduil, and suddenly Elrond wondered what _his_ face looked like. In fact, his color had not changed, but his eyebrows had gone off in different directions, giving his face a look simultaneously fierce and perplexed. Glorfindel stared at him but said nothing as he dismounted.

"You may as well get right back on that horse, Glorfindel," called Mithrandir. "Anomen has run away, and he must be found before he gets into trouble. More trouble, I mean," he added.

Glorfindel looked at Elrond, who nodded. "Yes, Glorfindel," he said somberly. "The one thing we can agree upon is that Anomen should not be out wandering in the wild. I am sorry to send you out when you have only just come in from patrol."

Glorfindel shrugged. "It is not as if I haven't done this before," he observed wryly as he swung himself back onto his mount. Holding his horse to a walk, he kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, looking for the mark of Anomen's feet. When he found footprints, he watched for the trail to disappear, for it would be at that point, he knew, that Anomen had taken to the trees, which he would have to do likewise.

Once Glorfindel was out of sight, Elrond remembered that he should act the host.

"My Lord Thranduil," he said, speaking as if the King had but newly arrived on a routine state visit, "you must be tired after your long journey. Rooms will be prepared for you and your companions. In the meanwhile, you will no doubt wish to bathe."

Thranduil forced himself to reply with a calmness he did not feel. By now the King of Greenwood had remembered that he was miles from home and accompanied by only a small force of warriors. It had likewise occurred to him that it might take some diplomacy to extricate his son from this place. Therefore, it behooved him to requite Elrond's politeness with equal or superior courtesy.

"My Lord Elrond," he said smoothly, "I would be glad of an opportunity to wash away the dust of my journey."

Elrond bowed slightly and gestured for Thranduil to walk beside him. He led the King of Greenwood to the finest of the bathing rooms. After making sure that the room was well stocked with all that was needful, Elrond bowed once more and excused himself. He hurried to his study, where as he had expected, he found Erestor and Mithrandir awaiting him. In his anxiety Mithrandir had quite forgotten that Elrond had forbidden him from smoking indoors, and he was emitting fumes at such a furious rate that the ceiling of the room was all but invisible. As for Erestor, his distress could be measured by the fact that he had overlooked an opportunity for scolding the wizard for his foul habit. Elrond sighed and strode through the room and onto the balcony. Erestor and Mithrandir followed. The wizard did not cease puffing upon his pipe, but a stiff breeze was blowing, so the situation was tolerable.

"Elrond," began Mithrandir, "what do you propose to do?"

"I don't know," Elrond replied bluntly. Erestor gaped. Elrond was rarely forced to admit himself at a loss.

"Elrond," Mithrandir said somberly, "you cannot deny Thranduil his son—not on your own authority, that is."

Erestor seized upon Mithrandir's last words. "Not on his own authority," he echoed hopefully. "On whose authority, then, must we rely?"

"You know that as well as I," Mithrandir answered. "Only a Council can declare a father's son forfeit. But I ask you, dare we force matters to such a point? The Elven kingdoms must remain united against the danger that is to come. Should a Council deem Thranduil not capable of rearing his own son, doubt not but that the King of Greenwood will abrogate every treaty to which he is a party. We want to do what is best for Anomen, true, but we must also do what is best for Middle-earth."

Elrond could not hide his indignation. "You speak as if Anomen is a hostage to be bartered for political advantage."

"He is the son of a king. He has been a hostage from the day of his birth."

Both Elrond and Erestor cried out in protest at Mithrandir's blunt words.

"How can you be so unfeeling?" objected Erestor. "And here I have always thought that you loved the lad. Was it nothing but show on your part?"

"It was _not_ show," Mithrandir replied acerbically, "but whether I love the lad or no, I cannot change who he is—or _what_ he is. If you are determined to keep him out of Thranduil's hands, no doubt you will have enough votes on the Council, for Thranduil has never deigned to cultivate any allies amongst the membership of that body. In addition to our votes, and Glorfindel's, you can count on Celeborn and Galadriel, and as for Círdan, he will follow Galadriel's lead. Radagast I can govern. And Saruman—"

Here Elrond interrupted. "I think we should leave Saruman out of this," he said earnestly. "I suspect he will throw his vote to whichever side seems strongest, which would be to our advantage. But to gain his vote we would have to reveal to him both the existence and the location of the Prince of Greenwood. This is information that he may someday wish to use for his own ends."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes. "You sound like Galadriel. For some reason—I know not why!—she has taken a dislike to Saruman. However, as you wish! We will have more than enough votes, even without Saruman's, to outmaneuver Thranduil."

"Then I shall at once begin to prepare vellum for the messages that must be sent out," declared Erestor, leaping to his feet.

"Hold, Erestor!" cried Mithrandir. "We could prevail at Council. The question is, do we want to? Remember, if Thranduil is denied his son, he will return in a rage to Greenwood. We need not look to him for reinforcements in the battles that are yet to be fought. What of Dol Guldur? What if we should need to move against it? We will need Thranduil's troops."

"What are we to do, then?" asked Erestor unhappily.

"I am afraid," said Elrond, with equal unhappiness, "that we shall have to behave as the leaders of our folk. In this matter we, too, are hostages. I am not free to act as I would, as Anomen's foster-father. Nor are you, Erestor and Mithrandir, free to behave as his mentors. The Prince of Greenwood shall have to accompany the King of Greenwood back to the realm he will someday rule."

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," Mithrandir said softly.

"Or the one," murmured Elrond.

"What's that you are saying, Elrond?" came a voice. Elrond startled. Glorfindel did not belong in this portion of his dream. Then he realized that he was standing on a balcony next to the balrog-slayer. Bemused, he gazed at the colored curtains of the Northern Lights that rippled across the skies, and the remainder of his dream slipped from his memory. 'How does it end?' he worried. 'How does it end?'


	6. Chapter 6: Falling Into Trouble

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Enigma Jade, Elfinabottle, Opal Kitty, Apsenniel, Dragonfly, Avion Jade, Joee, Windwraith, Keji, _and _CAH_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Beta Reader: _Dragonfly_**

**Chapter 6: Falling into Trouble**

After Elrond and Glorfindel left the balcony, each quickly retired to bed, and each almost at once found himself immersed in a dream in which Anomen figured prominently. For Glorfindel's part, he saw himself in a tree, studying a branch for any sign that an elfling had passed that way. At last he found what he was looking for, an almost imperceptible mark upon the skin of the tree. Following the subtle signs, he at last caught up with Anomen, who lay curled up asleep in the crotch of an oak tree. Glorfindel smiled with an amusement tinged by wistfulness. Oak trees had long been Anomen's favorite refuge. There was one in Rivendell to which Glorfindel automatically repaired whenever Anomen was reported missing, and more often than not the balrog-slayer would find the elfling hidden within its boughs. He would climb up beside the lad and, in his own brusque way, seek to soothe the elfling before leading him back to the Hall. Glorfindel always pretended to be put out when Elrond asked him to retrieve Anomen, but in truth he looked forward to these moments of quiet conversation with the otherwise skittish elfling. Now the balrog-slayer wondered whether he would ever again share such interludes with the lad. Sadly he settled himself upon a branch near Anomen and softly he called his name. Gradually, Anomen awoke and looked about in confusion.

"Where am I?"

"In an oak tree," Glorfindel deadpanned.

Anomen giggled. "_I_ know that!" he exclaimed. He didn't say, "_I_ know that, silly!" but his expression said as much, and Glorfindel felt a moment of happiness that subsided quickly as he again came to grips with the possibility that he would no longer enjoy moments such as these with the elfling he had come to love. Anomen sobered when he saw his mentor grow serious.

"I ran away," he said flatly.

"Yes, and you must not do so anymore. The world grows more and more dangerous. Stay close."

"I _want_ to stay close," Anomen cried. The syllables poured out so rapidly that one word tumbled into the next. "I want to stay close to you'n'Ada'n'Restor'n'Mith'n'Wen'n'Dan'n'Ro. I want to! But now the King of Greenwood has come," the elfling sobbed. "He'll take me back to the Great Hall, won't he?"

"It is very likely," Glorfindel answered honestly, "but that does not mean that you will never again see me and the others. For one thing, you will not always be an elfling, and someday you will be able to travel when and where you will. For another, your friends will sometimes themselves be able to travel. I myself have for several centuries been meaning to take a tour round Greenwood, and, do you know, I think I may do so in the near future. Certainly I will do so if I am no longer responsible for the training of a certain elfling. I shall have more time on my hands than I will know what to do with!" Here Glorfindel ventured to wink at Anomen and was rewarded when the lad wiped his sleeve across his eyes and smiled a little.

"You must also remember," Glorfindel continued, "that Mithrandir often journeys to Greenwood. I would predict that, should Thranduil take you to the Great Hall, those visits will increase in frequency and length. You will not be abandoned, ion-nîn!"

In his fervor, Glorfindel did not notice that he had addressed Anomen as 'ion-nîn', but Anomen had, and he was both awed and comforted. 'He called me his son', the elfling marveled to himself. Impulsively, he threw his arms around the neck of the balrog-slayer and squeezed tight.

"Here now," harrumphed Glorfindel, trapped between a laugh and a sob. "Here now, you scamp, you want to strangle me, do you? Well, here is the punishment for _that_!" And Glorfindel—yes, Glorfindel the indomitable, Glorfindel the balrog-slayer--seized Anomen about the waist and began to tickle him, only stopping when the two very nearly fell out of the tree. Gasping, with tears of laughter instead of sorrow in his eyes, Anomen did not resist when Glorfindel suggested that they descend from the tree and return to Elrond's Hall. The two climbed nimbly down and Glorfindel took Anomen's hand in his own and gently led him home—to what had been home, anyway.

In his sleep, the real Glorfindel groaned and tossed. Sitting up, he looked about wildly, half expecting to see a tearful elfling perched at the foot of his bed. When he saw no one, he sighed with relief and sank back upon his pillow. 'Anomen is in Rivendell, and all's right with the world," he murmured before falling back asleep.

In his own bed, Elrond, too, was sleeping fitfully. In his dream, from his window he saw Glorfindel and Anomen nearing the Hall, and he flinched when he saw how trustingly Anomen clutched the balrog-slayer's big hand with his little one. 'Like a lamb to the slaughter', he thought bitterly, 'and I am to be the executioner'. Despondent, the dream-Elrond left his chamber and went to meet Glorfindel and his charge. He stood at the entrance of the Hall, and when Glorfindel saw him, he released Anomen's hand and gently pushed the elfling forward. Anomen needed no further encouragement. He ran full tilt at Elrond and threw his arms around his waist. "Ada Ada Ada Ada," Anomen murmured as if chanting the name would create a bond between the two that would prevent anyone from ever spiriting away the elfling. 'Or perhaps', thought Elrond sadly, 'he is trying to say that name over and over again against the time when he is no longer able to address me by those syllables'.

Elrond was reluctant to break Anomen's hold upon him, so he simply scooped the elfling up and carried him inside to his chamber, where he, Anomen, and Glorfindel, soon joined by Erestor and Mithrandir, ate a private breakfast, free from the eyes of the many who broke fast in the dining hall—secure, also, for a time, against any interruption by Thranduil. Elrond knew, however, that the meeting between Anomen and the King of Greenwood could not be long delayed.

Indeed, at this very moment Thranduil was eagerly entering the dining hall. One of his warriors had been out in the garden, enjoying the sunrise, and had spied the balrog-slayer returning with Anomen by his side. He had hurried to the King's chamber and informed him of this development. The King, in the midst of dressing, hastily finished his morning toilet, confident that he was about to be reunited with his long-lost son. His disappointment at not finding the elfling in the Dining Hall was exceeded only by his fury. "No doubt," he raged, "the Peredhil, the Half-elven, thinks that he can hide Laiqualässe hereabouts. But I will not be denied!"

Accompanied by several warriors, Thranduil stormed toward Elrond's chamber. When he reached it, he aimed one mighty blow at the door and flung it open without waiting for a reply. Inside, his eye fell upon Anomen, curled comfortably upon Mithrandir's lap, drowsing after his night of fitful sleeping out of doors. Thranduil let out an enraged roar, and the elfling, startled into wakefulness, looked up into a face contorted with fury. Thinking that Thranduil's anger was directed at him, the lad leapt up in terror and before anyone could stop him he had made use of his preferred escape route: the window.

Unfortunately, Elrond's chamber was on the second floor, and Anomen in his haste had leapt blindly. No tree limb spread its boughs outside the window to welcome him. The adults heard a cry of fear and then a thump that was not followed by the sound of scurrying feet. All within the room sprang to the window, jostling one another in their anxiety and haste. Below lay Anomen, unconscious, one leg splayed out like a broken branch dangling from a tree after a fierce hailstorm.

Had Elrond loved Anomen less, he would have struck Thranduil down upon the instant. Instead, all his thoughts were with the elfling. He shoved someone out of the way—it was Mithrandir, but the wizard never rebuked him for it—and bolted from the chamber. As he ran, he heard wails coming from the garden. Arwen had been playing in amongst the flower beds and had found her beloved Nomie sprawled upon a greensward now stained red.

When Elrond reached Anomen, he had first to gently urge Arwen away from the lad's side. Fortunately, the other adults had arrived hard upon his heels, and Mithrandir took upon himself the task of coaxing the little lass into his arms. Once he had secured her, he carried her into the Hall and entrusted her to the first elleth he encountered before hurrying back outside. Whilst he did so, Erestor ran for bandages and splints so that Anomen's leg might be bound before he was moved, and Glorfindel hastened for a litter. As for Thranduil, all he could do was wring his hands until the others had returned. Once Anomen's leg had been bandaged, however, the King insisted upon being one of the litter bearers. He and Glorfindel simultaneously seized upon the same handle, and for a moment the two glared at one another other, each unwilling to let go. It was Erestor who brought the rivalry to an end, albeit a temporary one. "Glorfindel," he said firmly, "leave it. We can deal with that matter later. For now, Anomen needs to be brought inside, where Elrond and Mithrandir can better tend to him."

His concern for the elfling outweighing all else, Glorfindel nodded and stepped back, but Elrond knew that the balrog-slayer, if not prevented, would still find a way to 'deal with' his resentment toward Thranduil, and it was going to take all Elrond's diplomatic skills to stave off the disaster that would then reverberate throughout elvendom. For now, however, he was going to focus all his thoughts and energy upon mending Anomen.

Once Anomen had been carried inside and laid upon a bed, Elrond ordered everyone out but Mithrandir. Thranduil balked. "I will stay by the side of my son," he insisted. Glorfindel shot back at him.

"If you truly cared for your son," the balrog-slayer challenged, "you would not interfere with his well-being."

"Are you suggesting that I do not love for my son?" growled Thranduil.

"My words stand," Glorfindel said stubbornly. "If you truly cared for your son, you would not interfere with his well-being."

Thranduil hesitated. Rationally, he would have to concede that Elrond and Mithrandir would be better able to tend to Anomen if they were not distracted or impeded. Yet it seemed to him that Glorfindel's words might have an import beyond the sick-room, and it therefore might be dangerous to concede a point that might later be used against his claim upon his son. Still, he did not want to endanger Laiqualässe.

It was again Erestor who brought an end to the stand-off.

"Thranduil," he said mildly, "the library is quite near—within shouting distance, really. Although," he added hastily, "I do not approve of such behavior in its environs. However," he continued, "if you will accompany me there, I shall see to it that Lindir and some other of the runner-elves are posted outside this room. Should anything occur, you will be summoned upon the instant. Surely you will not be accused of neglecting your son if you await word at a place that is so close to hand. Is that not true, Glorfindel?" added the tutor, cannily drawing in the balrog-slayer.

Since Glorfindel had just minutes before been insisting that Thranduil leave the sick-room, he could not very well object to a plan that had the desired effect. Grudgingly, he muttered an 'aye'.

Relieved to have been provided with an opportunity to back down without losing face, Thranduil followed Erestor and Glorfindel from the chamber. Glorfindel did not wish to wait in the same room as Thranduil, so the balrog-slayer took up his station in the garden at a point from which he could descry through a window the movements of Elrond and Mithrandir. Meanwhile, Erestor showed Thranduil to the library and excused himself to fetch runners. In his absence, an agitated Thranduil moved about uneasily, picking up and putting down object after object as he sought for something to distract him from his fears. At length his eye fell upon a table on which were neatly stacked exercise books, rulers, glue pots, and other items indicative of the elementary student. He crossed over to the table and picked up the topmost exercise book. Flipping it open, upon the inside of the cover he saw neatly written, in childish letters, "Anomen Elrondion, his book." On the pages that followed were exercise after exercise, each corrected by a mature hand in a fashion no less careful than the one in which the exercises had been written. That would be Erestor's hand, no doubt. At last Thranduil closed the book and, deep in thought, resumed pacing.

Once the supernumerary Elves had left the sick-room, Elrond and Mithrandir set about in earnest the task of mending Anomen. Mithrandir had some potions of his own to mix while Elrond removed the temporary splint and carefully examined Anomen's leg. "There seems to be only one break," he said, "and that is good. On the other hand, the jagged end of bone has punctured the skin, and that is not good.

"I am including in this salve several herbs that fight corruption of the flesh," Mithrandir said, "and I shall apply to it several spells such as will not be too powerful for one of his size and age to endure."

Quickly Mithrandir reeled off the list of herbs that he was using. When he was finished, Elrond spoke approval and suggested two additional ingredients that he kept in his chamber. Mithrandir went to the door and dispatched one of the waiting Elves to fetch the necessary herbs.

"The messenger will return shortly," said Elrond when Mithrandir turned back into the room. "Meanwhile we should set his leg. You hold the upper part of the limb steady whilst I manipulate the lower portion."

Mithrandir took firm hold of Anomen's leg just below the knee while Elrond put one hand above and the other below the break. He meant to apply pressure as gently as possible, and he prayed that Anomen's unconsciousness was so deep that he would feel no pain. Slowly he began to manipulate the bone.

A few seconds later, a shriek rang out that reverberated throughout the Hall, and all who heard it answered with their own cries of pity and fear.


	7. Chapter 7: Awakenings

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Elfinabottle, Opalkitty, K'lara7, Lilandriel, Apsenniel, Dragonfly, Avion Jade, AlabrithGaiamoon, Windwraith, Keji, _and _CAH_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Beta Reader: _Dragonfly_**

**Chapter 7: Awakenings**

Erestor shot up and landed on his feet beside his bed without ever having touched its sides. What _was_ that awful scream that had awoken him out of a pleasant dream involving the Gardener's daughter? It had come from inside the Hall, Erestor was sure of it. The tutor crept to the door, eased it open, and looked up and down the hallway. No excited servants ran by, but a faint light flickered from under the door to Elrond's chamber, which happened to be the room nearest to Erestor's. Erestor, unlike Glorfindel, did not sleep in the nude, but he was modest—some said excessively so—and he did not wish to put even so much as his legs on display. Therefore, although he did not don his day clothes, he did pause long enough to wrap himself in a cloak. It was the briefest of delays, however, and within seconds the tutor was knocking gently upon Elrond's door.

"Enter if you must," came the reply, but the Elf who uttered that phrase spoke with agitation. What had happened to rob Elrond of his equanimity? Worriedly, Erestor pushed open the door and peered within.

Illuminated by the single candle on the nightstand beside his bed, Elrond was sitting up rigidly, clutching tightly at the bedclothes with knuckles whitened from the strain. His face, too, looked very pale, but he was sweating, which Elves rarely did, and then usually only because they had been poisoned or suffered grievous wounds in battle.

"Elrond," cried Erestor, alarmed, "whatever is the matter? Shall I fetch you some herbs or simples? Shall I summon Mithrandir?"

Elrond held up his hand to stay him. "Nay, Erestor, I am not ill. I have had a nightmare, is all."

Even more perplexed than before, Erestor gaped at the Lord of Imladris. Elrond? A nightmare?

Elrond recovered a little at the tutor's expression. "Come," he said, "gesturing to a chair that stood near the bed. "Sit you down, and I shall explain."

Erestor sat down gingerly upon the edge of the seat, as if he might spring from it upon the instant, and continued to stare anxiously at Elrond.

"You needn't look at me so, Erestor," Elrond chided him. "I am not one of your elflings, still subject to illness and cold and thus in need of coddling. I am an Elf full grown and immune to such perils."

"Odd, then," retorted Erestor, "that your face should be pale and yet beaded with sweat."

"My nightmare was a dreadful one."

"Were you being chased by a dragon?"

"No."

"A balrog?"

Elrond shook his head.

"Not, not—the Dark Lord?"

"No, it was Anomen."

Now Erestor was doubly perplexed. "Anomen? You were being chased by Anomen? Really, Elrond, I know that I have complained that the lad is on occasion a rascal, but—"

"Erestor," interrupted Elrond, "you misunderstand me. I stood in no danger in this dream—unless it be the danger of a broken heart. No, it was Anomen who was in peril."

"Dragon?"

"No."

"Balrog?"

"No."

"Dark Lord?"

"No."

"Elrond!" exclaimed Erestor in frustration. "Here I sit in the middle of the night, wrapped in a cloak, my feet bare, my hair unbraided, because you had a nightmare and let out a shriek that would have frightened a Ringwraith. Pray be a little more forthcoming. I would like the tale told in time for me to regain my room before the servants arise. I would not have anyone see me in this state."

Elrond smiled a little at his oh-so-predictable friend, but he sobered as he began his story. Swiftly he told Erestor of Penidhren's curiosity about Anomen's parentage and of how Glorfindel had deflected the Greenwood Elf's questions. Then he repeated to Erestor the scenario that Glorfindel had posed.

"So you see, Erestor, Glorfindel's words set me to dreaming about what might happen if an Elf appeared and laid claim to Anomen. In my dream, Anomen tried to escape from this claimant by leaping from a window"—here Erestor rolled his eyes as one all too familiar with that maneuver—"but he missed his mark and plummeted to the ground. He was badly injured, and in my nightmare I had to set his leg. It was then that I screamed, seemingly."

"I understand now," said Erestor musingly. "Yes, that would indeed be a nightmare. If an Elf suddenly arrived and tried to take Anomen away, all of Rivendell would be thrown into an uproar. By the Valar! It would take a dozen Elves at the least to hold down Glorfindel to prevent him doing that Elf an injury!"

"I think," said Elrond wryly, "that you do Glorfindel an injustice. Only a dozen Elves?"

Erestor began to protest, but then he saw Elrond's smile. The tutor arose from his chair. "Well," he said lightly, "it was after all only a dream. A few hours still remain before dawn. I shall try to make the most of them. I hope you are not planning to visit any more fearsome screams upon the unsuspecting populace of Rivendell. If you are, may I suggest that you sleep with a pillow over your face?"

Elrond laughed but shook his head. "I succeeded in setting Anomen's leg. The worst was over, I think—at least insofar as Anomen's physical injuries were concerned."

"Let us hope so!" declared Erestor as he exited the chamber. Arriving at his own room, he carefully hung up his cloak—Glorfindel would have cast it aside, he thought smugly—and he composed himself for sleep. As he was genuinely tired, it was not long before he was fast asleep and entering into his own dream.

"My son!" cried a fearful Thranduil as he heard Anomen cry out in pain. "What has happened to my son?" He made for the door of the library, but dream-Erestor, who had returned from his errand, seized hold of his tunic.

"Thranduil, I swear that Elrond would send for you if Anomen were in any danger."

"His name is _not_ Anomen," said Thranduil angrily, "and whether he is in danger or no, I would comfort him."

"You cannot comfort him upon the instant," Erestor said reasonably. "Elrond would never have set his leg if he were conscious."

"Then why did he cry out?" demanded Thranduil.

"Undoubtedly the pain was so great that it pierced even his unconsciousness. But now that the leg is set, he will fall back into a deep sleep. Even if he should begin to rouse, Elrond would only give him something to make him sleep anew. It is best that he should sleep rather than have his strength sapped by pain."

Thranduil subsided, slumping into a chair. "Can I do nothing for my son?" he said miserably.

"You _are_ doing something for your son, Thranduil. You are leaving him in the hands of two of the finest healers in Middle-earth. The ability to recognize when one's child should be entrusted to another is the mark of a wise and loving parent."

"Is it?" said Thranduil softly, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Thranduil did not have to wait much longer before he was summoned to Anomen's bedside. No runner came for him, however; Elrond himself entered the library to tell Thranduil that he had finished treating Anomen and that the lad could receive visitors. "I must warn you, however," said the Lord of Elrond, "that he is sound asleep and will not speak no matter how urgently you address him. You should not be alarmed by his stillness, however. It is not indicative of anything bad, only that he is in a healing sleep."

"So I have been told," Thranduil said curtly.

Side by side, Thranduil and Elrond returned to Anomen's room, where Thranduil gazed eagerly upon his son, who was tucked under layers of quilts, only his face visible.

"As you can see," Elrond said, gesturing at that face, "Anomen's color is good."

"His name is Laiqualässe," Thranduil insisted.

"Laiqualässe? Rather a formal name for one so young," said Mithrandir, who stood by the foot of the bed.

"I believe," said Thranduil, hesitating, "I believe the servants _may_ have called him Legolas."

"Ah, _Legolas_," said Mithrandir approvingly. "Now, Legolas is a proper name for a lively young Elf such as this one. I can envision him as Legolas, archer of renown, one who strikes fear into the hearts of Orcs—well, he would, anyway, if Orcs _had_ hearts."

"He is _Prince_ Legolas," said Thranduil coldly. "He won't be fighting Orcs."

"_You_ have been known to fight Orcs in your day, Thranduil," rejoined the wizard. "I don't see why your son shouldn't. I should think you would be proud if your son took after you."

Thranduil winced. No, he was not certain that he wanted Legolas to take after him, at least not when it came to—certain matters. But for now he did not wish to think of that. He had other, more immediate concerns, such as returning his son to Greenwood. He had better broach the subject at once.

"I suppose," the King said dourly, "that Lai, um, Legolas will be unable to ride until his leg has fully healed."

"I would not recommend it," replied Elrond. "Not only must the bone knit, but he must recover his strength. He has suffered a severe shock and will not be himself for several weeks."

"Could he be moved upon a litter?"

Elrond shook his head. "The continual swaying, not to mention the jostling, would weary him. Better to wait until he is capable of keeping to his horse."

Thranduil grimaced. That meant an extended stay in Rivendell, for he was resolved not to quit the place without his son. He feared that if he departed, the lad would be spirited away before his return.

"As Legolas may be remaining here for several more months," said Thranduil with careful politeness, "then I wonder if I might trouble you to arrange our sleeping accommodations so that we might share the same chamber."

"Of course," said Elrond, equally polite. "I shall see that new rooms are prepared for you during the night so that upon the morrow the change may be made." Mithrandir could hear what Elrond was thinking: _I must perforce accede to this request; I can proffer no excuse not to. _Mithrandir sent his thoughts to the elf-lord: _Elrond, it is for the best; father and son must come to understand one another._

The next morning, a still-sleeping Legolas was conveyed to the rooms that he was to share with his father. As soon as the elfling was settled, Thranduil wanted to order all the Rivendell folk from the chamber, but in spite of his resentment of those who had kept his son from him, he feared that Legolas would be distressed if he woke up to a room completely empty of those who had most recently cared for him. Reluctantly, Thranduil settled upon Mithrandir as his son's sickroom companion. "If you wouldn't mind," he said to the wizard, "I should like you to stay here and attend upon my son—for a little while. If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he added, almost hoping that the wizard would refuse. That was not likely. Mithrandir well knew that Thranduil made the request only grudgingly, but the wizard understood even better than the King that Legolas would want someone from his Rivendell family to be there when he awoke. "I shall be glad to serve in any fashion that I may," he declaimed. In reply Thranduil stiffly gestured his 'guest' toward a chair. The wizard seated himself, and Thranduil escorted the others to the door.

After the others had departed, Thranduil took a seat facing the wizard. After several minutes of awkward silence, the King posed a blunt question.

"How long have you known that he was here?"

"I have not known. Indeed, I have been very careful _not_ to know."

Thranduil snorted. "I can believe that! Very well, then. How long have you _suspected_?"

"From the very start," Mithrandir replied coolly.

Thranduil hand went to his hip, but then he remembered that his sword rested against the wall in its scabbard. He dropped his hand. Mithrandir smiled knowingly. His staff lay across his lap, but now he set it aside.

"My dear, Thranduil, let us not quarrel. We have something in common. We both of us care for your son."

"My son," growled Thranduil. "Yes, _my_ son."

"I never said he wasn't," the wizard said mildly. "We needn't argue over _that_. In fact, we need argue over nothing at all."

Thranduil paused, nonplussed. Somehow he had lost the advantage of being the aggrieved party. He would have been happier if the wizard had disputed his claim, as it would have given him the excuse to continue angry. Now what was he to say? He sat silent for a while, brooding and feeling a trifle indignant over not being entitled to, well, _feel_ _indignant_. Mithrandir finally broke the silence.

"You want to return with Legolas to Greenwood."

"Of course," Thranduil quickly replied.

"Then if we talk about anything, it ought to be about how you are to go about accomplishing your goal."

"On horseback," said Thranduil dryly.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mithrandir. "How witty you have become!"

"I was being sarcastic."

"So was I."

Another silence ensued. This time it was broken by Legolas. The lad muttered and raised a hand to his head, rubbing his brow and looking about confusedly. Both adults leaped to his bed and leaned in to speak to him, banging their own heads together in the process. "Ow!" they cried in unison, and each glared at the other. In another moment they were smiling, however, for Legolas, sick as he was, giggled at the sight of Wizard and King colliding. His giggles vanished, though, as soon as Thranduil addressed him.

"Legolas," the King enthused, "praise the Valar that you have regained consciousness, and so quickly, too!"

"That is not my name," Legolas replied sullenly.

"Don't you remember being called by that name in Greenwood?"

"Yes, but never by _you_. The servants would call me 'Legolas', and before that my Edwen Nana called me Laiqua. You never called me anything at all. You gave me 'no name', and that is the name I go by now," the elfling concluded bitterly.

"But from whence came the names 'Laiqua' and 'Legolas'?" persisted Thranduil.

Legolas shrugged.

"They are nicknames, Legolas. They come from a name I chose for you—your mother and I chose for you—even before you were born: Laiqualässe. Your mother was Laurelässe—Golden Leaf—and your name, 'Green Leaf', was patterned after hers."

Thranduil looked hopefully at Legolas, but the elfling stared back uncertainly. Should he believe Thranduil's tale? No one had ever spoken to him of his mother. He had never heard her name. Perhaps Thranduil was making up this story in order to win him over. He looked at Mithrandir. The wizard nodded.

Thranduil caught the look exchanged between elfling and wizard. He was relieved that Mithrandir had backed him up, but troubled by the fact that Legolas turned to the wizard for reassurance. Mithrandir caught his glance. Just then the bell rang for the noon meal. The wizard seized his opportunity.

"Well," he harrumphed, "it is time for me to go. Legolas, a tray shall be brought to you, as well as to your father, but as for me, if I do not bestir myself, I shall get nothing to eat this day."

"Don't go, Mithrandir," cried Legolas. "I am not at all hungry. You may have my tray."

Mithrandir shook his head. "You need to recover your strength. I would not accept even one biscuit at your hand."

With that he strode to the door, paused a moment to bow almost imperceptibly, and disappeared, leaving behind a grateful King but a frightened elfling.

In his bed, Erestor heard the sound of a bell. He sat up and looked about. His room was filled with afternoon sunshine. He had slept through the morning. Hastily the tutor leaped from his bed and pulled on his clothes. Then he hurried to the Dining Hall. "Why did no one summon me to breakfast," he grumbled to Elrond as he took his seat at the elf-lord's table.

"When you did not appear at breakfast," Elrond replied, "I judged that you were in need of rest and ought not to be disturbed. After all, your sleep was interrupted last night."

"And whose fault was _that_?" muttered Erestor. "Ai!" he cried, remembering his duties. "Now Nenmaethor, Anomen, and the twins have missed a day at lessons."

"They have many days ahead of them," Elrond replied serenely. "No doubt you will find some way to cover the missed material."

'Yes', thought Erestor, suddenly happy. 'Yes, they _do_ have many days ahead of them. All of them. Not just the twins and Nenmaethor but Anomen, too. Praise the Valar, it was a dream. Naught but a dream'.

With that, Erestor dug into the food before him with an enthusiasm that raised more eyebrows than Elrond's.

"'Restor, you are eating like a Twoll," lisped Arwen.

"Arwen," Elrond began, "a young lady does not—"

"No, no," interrupted Erestor. "Do not chide her. She is only a little one." Elrond's eyebrows had begun to subside, but at Erestor's latest words, they shot up again. As for the tutor, he smiled beneficently upon Arwen and then upon each elfling in turn. His gaze rested at the last upon Anomen.

"Naught but a dream," Erestor repeated to himself contentedly. "Naught but a dream."


	8. Chapter 8: Sensible

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Opalkitty, Lilandriel, Apsenniel, Avion Jade, Krissy Wonder, Keji, _and _CAH_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Beta Reader: _Dragonfly_, who caught Elrond masquerading as Erestor.**

**Chapter 8: Sensible**

Glorfindel was mightily relieved that evening when at last given an opportunity to escape to his room. As Erestor had not been available to supervise the elflings' lessons that morning, the balrog-slayer had been responsible for their conduct all the livelong day. 'I know I am immortal', he grumbled to himself as he removed his cloak and flung it carelessly over the back of a chair, 'but even so, I can only lead one life at a time. I cannot be simultaneously tutor and weapons master'. Sighing in relief at his escape from the demands of duty, he sat down upon the edge of his bed and yanked off first one and then the other boot, flinging each into a separate corner of the room. Next he removed his tunic, which he tossed onto the table. As for his leggings, he dropped them carelessly upon the floor. It was no wonder that Erestor avoided Glorfindel's room as if it were a dragon's lair. Indeed, Elrond sometimes suspected that this was why Glorfindel was so slovenly: to discourage Erestor from popping in. Glorfindel had little patience for Erestor's lengthy expositions upon matters historical.

Exhaling gratefully, Glorfindel slipped underneath the smooth, cool duvet and stretched his limbs contentedly. Not one to mull over a day's events, he was soon asleep. Yet under the surface of his calm exterior, he was perhaps more agitated than he knew. For it was not long before his dreams took an unpleasant turn.

"What do you mean, 'we cannot prevent him'?" dream-Glorfindel was fuming. He paced furiously back and forth before Elrond, who was trying without success to calm the angry balrog-slayer. "Elrond, I know Legolas must in the end return to Greenwood, and I told the lad so, but cannot we delay his departure even a little while?"

"I do not see how, Glorfindel. Thranduil has a right to his son."

"But Legolas ran away. Surely that speaks poorly of Thranduil."

"Sometimes children run away not because they have been mistreated but because they are willful."

"You know that Legolas did not run away out of willfulness."

"True, but how is that to be proven? No, Glorfindel, when Legolas has recovered from his fall, he must accompany his father to Greenwood."

Stomping out of Elrond's study with all the grace of a Troll, Glorfindel barreled down the corridor, scattering appalled servants in his wake. He tempered his rage, however, as he neared the chambers Legolas shared with his father. Thus far Thranduil had tolerated the balrog-slayer's visits, but only just, and Glorfindel did not wish to give the King an excuse to bar him from the elfling's presence. By the time Glorfindel had reached his goal, then, he was quite composed, and he knocked upon the door with the gentleness of an elf-maiden.

Once inside the chamber, Glorfindel waited politely for Thranduil to invite him to take a seat. Thranduil did so only grudgingly. He knew that Legolas worshipped the balrog-slayer, and he was jealous on that account. On the other hand, given that the elfling adored Glorfindel, Thranduil did not dare turn him away, for if he did so he risked alienating his son. It was necessary, then, to be civil to the Rivendell Elf.

So the two Elves engaged in a carefully choreographed dance of politeness. "Please take a seat, Lord Glorfindel," said Thranduil, after waiting long enough to make the atmosphere in the room awkward but not long enough to have absolutely exceeded the bounds of courtesy. As for Glorfindel, he bowed just enough for the demands of politeness—a slight inclination of the head—before he took a seat beside the elfling's bed.

"How are you today, Legolas?" asked the balrog-slayer. The elfling made a piteous face. "I do not think I will _ever_ get better," he moaned. "My leg hurts _excruciatingly_."

Glorfindel frowned. Excruciatingly? It had been several days since Legolas had plunged to the ground, and his leg had been well tended and carefully splinted. That, combined with the fact that the patient was of elven-kind and therefore a fast healer, meant that Legolas ought not to be suffering much in the way of pain. Yet he claimed to be not only in pain but _excruciatingly_ so. The balrog-slayer gave a sideways glance at Thranduil. Could it be that Legolas found it so stressful to be in Thranduil's presence that his healing was being impeded?

Thranduil sensed Glorfindel's eye upon him and struggled to keep his countenance. He knew what Glorfindel was thinking, and he rejected the notion. He had done everything he could to reassure Legolas: speaking softly, moving slowly, making certain that the lad had whatever he desired. If Legolas healed at a snail's pace, it must be because the injury was worse than Elrond had thought—either that or Elrond and Mithrandir were not the great healers they were reputed to be. Angrily, Thranduil struck back at Glorfindel using his most powerful weapon: the control he wielded over Legolas's person.

"Since Legolas is feeling poorly," he said, "it would no doubt be best if he did not expend his energy unnecessarily. Lord Glorfindel, perhaps tomorrow, when he feels better, you might return."

"Oh, no, no," protested Legolas. "I do not feel _that_ badly. Do not send Glorfindel away."

Thranduil let his edge show. "Only a moment ago," he said sharply, "you said that you were in excruciating pain."

Legolas subsided, and Glorfindel reluctantly arose.

"I'll be back," he said grimly. It was both a promise to Legolas and a warning to Thranduil.

The next day when Glorfindel knocked upon the door there was no answer. Glorfindel knocked again. Still no answer. Suddenly a great fear entered the balrog-slayer's mind. 'He has absconded with the lad' he said to himself. 'During the night he and his retinue have slipped away!' He flung open the door. As he feared, no one was in the room. But as he stood at a loss, Legolas limped in from the outer chamber. Balrog-slayer and elfling both startled.

"How is it that you are walking about?" exclaimed Glorfindel. "Yesterday you were in such pain that it did not seem as if you were anywhere near recovering. Yet today you are on your feet, albeit with a limp."

Legolas blushed and looked down at his feet.

"Oh ho," said Glorfindel. "I see what you are about. You are malingering, aren't you? You were only pretending to be in pain—_excruciating_ pain."

Legolas looked up and spoke earnestly. "I wasn't exactly lying, Lord Glorfindel. As soon as my leg is better, Thranduil will take me away to Greenwood, and that makes my heart ache. An aching heart pains even more excruciatingly than a broken limb."

Glorfindel knelt down and put his arms around the elfling. "You are quite right, Legolas. I know from my own experience that, had I to choose between a broken heart and a broken limb, I would go with the limb every time. But how is it that you are not in bed keeping up the charade?"

"Whilst I was in bed pretending to sleep, one of the Greenwood warriors came in and told Thranduil that his horse had gone lame as it was exercised. He went out to check upon the steed, and I thought that I would take the chance to stretch my own limbs."

Just then voices were heard in the hallway outside, and Legolas leapt clear of Glorfindel and dove back into bed. He had just pulled the covers up to his chin when Thranduil, followed by one of his Elves, entered the room. The King was in very poor humor.

"First my son, now my horse. Lord Glorfindel, is there something in the water hereabouts that weakens the limbs of Elf and steed?"

"If there is, it has left _me_ unaffected," replied Glorfindel gravely. Legolas, however, was not able to affect a similar gravity. He giggled, and for a moment Glorfindel feared that Thranduil would be angry at being laughed at. But the King was pleased rather than offended. He dropped his cross manner at once and quickly knelt beside Legolas's bed, pushing back the quilt so that he could better see his son's face.

"My dear lad, you laughed. 'Tis the first joyful sound you have made since the fall. You must be getting better!"

"My leg still hurts," Legolas said quickly.

"Of course it does, my son. The important thing, though, is that it hurts a little less than it did formerly. You are mending, and as soon as both you and my steed are sound of limb, off to Greenwood we will go."

Cheerfully, Thranduil stood up. He was so happy that he spoke to Glorfindel in a pleasant tone that was entirely free of enmity or suspicion.

"Glorfindel, I am sure your visits have helped cheer Legolas, and for that I thank you. You are noble in birth and noble in deed. When we have returned to Greenwood, I pray you that you visit us upon occasion."

The offer was sincerely made, and Glorfindel could not but be gracious in the face of such a peace offering. He smiled and clasped Thranduil upon the shoulder in token of friendship, and it was not a feigned gesture. But inside, his heart—ached.

Glorfindel tossed and turned in his bed. The room was too close; he could not breathe. His chest ached from the lack of oxygen. He sat up, his head and his heart pounding in unison. "I need air," he mumbled. He flung aside the duvet and staggered onto his balcony. Gradually, his body cooled in the night air, and his breathing returned to normal.

"What a distressing dream," he murmured. "I wish I could drive from my mind these thoughts that I have suffered ever since Penidhren's visit."

In a room nearby, Erestor was having much the same thought. He had been drifting in and out of sleep for the past several hours, each time awaking in alarm at the thought that he had lost track of something important. Now he once again felt himself slipping into sleep, and he hoped that this time he would slumber undisturbed. In this case, however, the wish was not father to the deed. Almost as soon as he was asleep, he found himself resuming his former dream. He was busying himself in his library when in strode Thranduil. Erestor was surprised to see him, for the Greenwood Elf had been spending every waking moment (so to speak) at his son's side. Erestor had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Thranduil's faithful presence at the bedside of his son bespoke affection for the lad. The request that the King was about to make also could be taken as proof of his fatherly concern.

"My Lord Erestor," began the King, "you are well acquainted with my son, are you not?"

"I believe that I am," replied Erestor proudly. "As his tutor, I have had his education in my keeping for several years."

"Aye, that you have," said Thranduil dryly, and Erestor suddenly wished that he had worded his answer differently, without any reference to length of time.

"As you know my son _so_ well," continued Thranduil, his manner still somewhat ironical, "perhaps _you_ can advise me on how best to entertain him. He said he would like a book to read, but when I asked him if he had a particular one in mind, he said any book would do. I think, though, as I look around this immense collection, that that could hardly be true. With so many books to choose from, I am sure that he could not like all equally. There must be some that he prefers over others."

Whether Thranduil intended it or no, his allusion to the size of the collection recommended him to the tutor. The library holdings were not only large but well chosen, and that was mainly thanks to Erestor, who had spent centuries commissioning copies of rare manuscripts. Indeed, he himself was responsible for the copying of some of the finest volumes. (A number of lesser volumes had of course been copied by elflings who had been foolish enough to be caught at mischief-making. This fact explained why, in later years, the Prince of Mirkwood proved to be as well acquainted with the history of Gondor as King Elessar: it was simply that Legolas, in the course of copying a lengthy historical tome, had learned its contents by heart.)

"Well," said Erestor, beaming, "I must say that I agree with you, my Lord. The collection _is_ large, and, yes, Legolas does have his favorites. Now, this one, for example," he continued, picking up a substantial tome, "is a volume that he has lately been reading. It is not the sort of book that _I _favor, for it treats of the fairy tales of Men, but Legolas has always had a soft spot in his heart for that sort of thing. You will find seven tales in this volume, each set in a peculiar land that one reaches by entering into a wardrobe. Silly, I know, but I suppose it may be just the thing for an injured elfling who wishes to while away the hours. Or he might like to read these," the tutor went on, laying his hand on a stack of six books, each heftier than the last. "These books recount the deeds of a boy wizard. The first begins the tale when he is eleven, and each one begins anew with the following year. I haven't succeeded in collecting the entire set, for I understand that there is a seventh and final volume, but so far the narrative has been an interesting one. The boy is up against a sort of Dark Lord, and if he doesn't defeat him, well, I suppose it will go as badly for his universe as it would for ours if Sauron ever gained mastery over Middle-earth."

As Erestor spoke, he suddenly desired that Legolas should read the latter volumes. 'After all', he said to himself, 'Legolas may beg leave of his father to remain until I have found a copy of the seventh volume. That may take awhile. Indeed, some say that the seventh volume has not been completed. Perchance it will be many months before Legolas will be able to finish reading the narrative'.

Perhaps something of the sort had occurred to Thranduil. "I think this volume will do," he said, laying his hand on the shorter, wardrobe tales. And I thank you for your help, Lord Erestor. I suspect that my son will be very pleased to peruse this volume. By the by," he added, as he flipped through the book's pages, "I must say that these illustrations are delightful."

"I drew and colored them myself," said Erestor proudly, his disappointment at Thranduil's choice of book assuaged somewhat by the compliment.

"Indeed, I should have suspected as much," said Thranduil, bowing a little, "for it is plain that you are a great lover of books."

Now Erestor had almost completely recovered from his disappointment, and his politeness as he accompanied Thranduil to the door was not feigned. 'Not such a bad fellow after all', he said to himself after the King had departed.

Unfortunately, Erestor's complacency on the subject of Thranduil did not last for long. Legolas was unable to disguise the fact that he was mending, and Thranduil at length decreed that the Greenwood Elves would be departing in a fortnight. This pronouncement threw everyone in Rivendell into consternation, and the tutor was no exception. The day after Thranduil's announcement, Erestor sat in the library fuming as he tried to mop up the ink he had just spilled. He had already blotted three manuscripts and broken as many pens. He was utterly unable to concentrate, and even though he was in the habit of denying his feelings, he could not do so now.

"Confounded fool," he spluttered, raging at Thranduil. "Can't he see that it would be best to leave Legolas be. He has so many friends here. Oh, it is true that he shall make friends in Greenwood. He couldn't fail to, I suppose, for he is a loving child and folk can't help but love him in return. But it shall be such a shock, such a shock."   
By that, he of course meant a shock to everyone involved, including himself.

As he fumed, the door creaked open, and Erestor looked up in surprise. Someone had entered the room without knocking. There stood Legolas. His little body was trembling. Erestor leaped to his feet. In the process, he knocked over the ink pot yet again, but he didn't care. He crossed over to Legolas and folded him into his arms.

"What is the matter, lad?" he said gently.

"Thranduil has told the servants to begin packing my clothes. I don't want to go with him, Erestor! I want to stay here."

Just then Elrond's voice could be heard approaching. The elf-lord was asking all the servants that he encountered whether they had seen Legolas.

In his heart, Erestor knew that the elfling's departure could not be stayed, but in the face of Legolas's distress, the tutor's pity outweighed his common sense.

"Quick!" whispered Erestor. "Get behind that bookcase."

Anomen slipped into one of the small spaces left behind each bookcase to permit the easy removal of dust. Flattened against the wall, he held his breath. A few minutes after he had hidden himself, Elrond entered the room.

"Erestor," said Elrond, "have you seen Legolas?"

"I don't see him," Erestor replied curtly.

Elrond noticed straightaway that Erestor had answered in the present tense even though the question had been posed in the past tense. Knowing how exacting Erestor was when it came to grammar, Elrond found this fact to be—interesting. "Erestor, I didn't ask whether you see Legolas at the moment; after all, if he were within your sight he should be within mine as well. I asked whether you _had_ seen him, as in the recent past. In other words, has he been in this chamber recently?"

"It would not be accurate to say that he has been in this chamber recently," Erestor replied cautiously.

Elrond looked at him steadily. "I see," he said. "The present perfect would not be the proper tense. Would the simple present be the appropriate one, then?"

Erestor colored, thus giving Elrond his answer. The master of Rivendell proceeded to look behind the door. No Legolas. Then he looked underneath the table, which was partially barricaded, as it were, by the stacks of books that sat on the floor all about. As Erestor stood stubbornly silent, Elrond next looked behind each and every arras. He opened the chest in which Erestor stored some particularly valuable tomes. He peered into an enormous decorative vase that stood in an alcove. Still no Legolas. Elrond then began to look behind each and every bookcase. He drew closer and closer to the one that sheltered the lad. Suddenly the elfling, knowing that discovery was inevitable, shot out from his sanctuary and raced for the door. Even with a stiff leg, he was fast, but Elrond, suspecting that something of the sort would happen, was prepared. With two great steps, he caught up with the fleeing lad and seized him by the shoulders.

"Legolas," he said gently, "you cannot be always running away."

The elfling twisted about in his arms to look up at him.

"What does it matter," he said bitterly, "if I run away? You are going to send me away anyway."

"It matters that you are safe, in Greenwood, rather than roaming the wild and falling prey to beast or foe."

"Safe! How shall I be safe in Greenwood?"

"You will be with your father."

Legolas ducked his head to hide his tears but Elrond could hear the grief in his muffled voice. "You said I should call you 'Ada', but now you don't want me here."

Elrond knelt down so that he could draw the lad bodily into his arms. "Anomen, I want you here. I desperately want you here. But for me to harbor you would be against both law and custom."

"What if I said that the King of Greenwood beat me?" Legolas asked desperately.

"But he did not, did he?" Elrond said gently. It did not escape his notice that Legolas still referred to Thranduil as the 'King of Greenwood' rather than as his father, and he wished to duck his own head to hide his own tears. Instead, he forced the tears back and looked steadily at the little elfling.

"Legolas," he said, keeping his voice steady, "I have noticed how anxiously your father has cared for you these past several weeks. He has carefully inquired of all to find out your likes and dislikes and has tried his best to supply you with those foods and pastimes that are pleasing to you. Whatever his faults may have been, he loves you and wishes to make amends for any past neglect."

Nothing that Elrond said made any difference. Legolas burst into tears and no one—not Elrond, not Erestor, not Glorfindel when he was summoned—could comfort him. At last Elrond scooped up the sobbing elfling and, reluctantly, carried him back to the rooms he shared with Thranduil. He placed him in his bed as Thranduil awkwardly looked on. When he tried to bid the lad goodnight, the little one pulled his duvet over his head and refused to look at him or speak to him.

Elrond returned sadly to his own chamber. He felt unbearably dirty, as if fouled by the blood and muck of a battlefield. He crossed to the washstand in the corner of his room and splashed water upon his face, but his heart still burned with the shame of what he had done. It was true that by his actions the alliance between Greenwood and Rivendell would be maintained, but he had treated Legolas as if for all these years he had been no more than a marker, a hostage to be delivered up when it became expedient to do so. He leaned over the basin and splashed more water upon his face.

In his own room, Erestor felt the sensation of wetness upon his face. He sat up and found that his pillow was soaked. More than that: his breath came in shuddering gasps. 'I can't have been crying', the tutor argued to himself. 'Something must have aggravated my eyes. I know! Mithrandir must be in the garden smoking his wretched pipe. No doubt the fumes have drifted in at the window. Yes, that's it!"

Trying to persuade himself that this was the explanation for his condition, Erestor lay back down and tried to will himself back to sleep. It was a long time, however, before the tutor's breathing became regular and even, and he told himself that the wizard's pipe weed must have irritated his windpipe as well as his eyes. Indeed, that would have been the sensible explanation for the Elf's condition. And as all know, Erestor is always—sensible.


	9. Chapter 9: Pipe Weed and Pepper

**Thanks to the following reviewers: ****_Krissy Wonder,_****_ Keji, _****_Avion Jade, _****_AlabrithGaiamoon, Windwraith, _****_Lilandriel, Elfinabottle, _****_CAH, and Opalkitty_****. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly.**

**Chapter 9: Pipe Weed and Pepper**

Mithrandir sat on a bench smoking his pipe, but the pastime was not providing him with its usual pleasure. He tried sending smoke figure after smoke figure across the garden, but he could succeed in blowing naught but misshapen ships and deformed dragons. He was just about to give up in disgust when he heard voices nearby.

"Nomie," piped one voice, "where are you going?"

"I am going to the stable to meet Nenmaethor and the twins. Glorfindel has promised that we may ride with him as far as the Third Bridge."

"But I want you to play wit' me!"

"I shall play with you when I return, Arwen. It will still be light, for, remember, we only ride as far as the Third Bridge. I shan't be gone long."

"I don't want you to be gone at all," pouted Arwen. "Ever!" she added. Mithrandir arose and circled the bush that hid the speakers. "Well, Arwen," he said genially, "an old codger like me may not be as much fun as a lively young Elf like Anomen, but if you will let go his tunic, I will try my best to entertain you."

Arwen was indeed gripping a handful of Anomen's tunic within her little hands, and the lad was trying to gently peel away her fingers. At the sight of the wizard, Arwen did not immediately release her captive. "What will you do?" she demanded skeptically.

Mithrandir inhaled a mouthful of smoke and exhaled a pony that galloped down the path toward a rose arbor. Arwen let go at once and darted after it. "Apparently I just needed an audience," said the wizard cheerfully. He winked at Anomen. "Be off with you, lad. I shall see to your sister."

"Hannon le!" called Anomen over his shoulder as he dashed off.

For the next several hours Mithrandir filled the garden with whole cavalry of horses, as well as oliphaunts, dragons, deer, and unicorns. The latter were mythological creatures, of course, but none the less entertaining for that. By the time Anomen returned from riding, Arwen was sound asleep upon the greensward, having worn herself out in pursuit of the airy creatures. "Did you have a good ride?" asked Mithrandir as he stooped to lift Arwen.

"Oh, yes," enthused Anomen. "It was so grand to be allowed to ride past the Second Bridge. We passed a wondrous tall waterfall. The spray that arose at its base made creatures very like your smoky ones. And the glade watered by that mist, why, Mithrandir, that glade was teeming with flowers."

"Teeming, eh? I've never thought of flowers as 'teeming'."

"I know it does sound odd," admitted Anomen as he walked alongside the wizard. Unconsciously, he took hold of one of Arwen's hands where it dangled and intertwined his fingers with hers. "But 'swarming' sounds even odder, don't you think? It makes me think of insects, not flowers."

"But 'teeming'," rejoined the wizard, "makes _me_ think of fish. Have you ever heard the phrase 'fields carpeted with flowers'? Wouldn't that do?"

"I _have_ heard that phrase," admitted Anomen, "but, no, it wouldn't do. A carpet is not a living thing. That's why I chose 'teeming'. I felt as if the flowers were multiplying before my eyes, so alive that glade was! I should not have been surprised if the wild roses had commenced to dance around the fairy ring at its center. Perhaps that is what a fairy ring is, Mithrandir, a place where the flowers dance at night when we are not looking."

"Do you know, Anomen," said Mithrandir, smiling, "that some Men think fairy rings are where _Elves_ come out to dance under the full moon."

"Well," replied the elfling gravely, "the part about the full moon makes sense, I guess—at least from the point of view of the humans. If _they_ were going to dance about fairy rings at night, I suppose they'd pick a night when the glade would be well lit. Otherwise they'd be tripping over toadstools, wouldn't they?"

By then they had reached Elrond's chamber, and Mithrandir merely smiled at the lad and nodded. He was glad he was spared answering aloud, for he feared he might laugh at the young one's quaintly serious manner.

"Hullo, my friend," he called from Elrond's door, which stood open to admit a breeze on an otherwise sultry day. "I have got something of yours."

Elrond came to the door, and the wizard carefully transferred his slumbering charge to the arms of the Elf.

"She is all tired out with chasing phantasms," Mithrandir explained. "I entertained her with my smoke creatures whilst Anomen was riding. Else she would not have allowed Anomen to depart."

Elrond smiled, but it seemed to Mithrandir that the gesture was somewhat lacking. "After you have tucked in Arwen for that night," the wizard said carefully, "I shall return and share a glass of wine with you—unless, of course, you would rather be otherwise occupied."

Elrond shook his head. "You know that you are always welcome in my chambers, mellon-nîn."

Mithrandir turned to Anomen. "Well, then, I shall return after I have delivered this lad to the library. Erestor has been making indignant noises at how long Anomen has been away from that place. Something about some pages of a chronicle not having been copied properly, I believe."

Anomen grimaced but released Arwen's hand and transferred his own to the wizard's. "Do reason with him, Mithrandir," the elfling begged. "I merely skipped over a page that was dreadfully boring. It was a list of the kings and chieftains of Arnor and Gondor. I don't see why I should have to memorize such a tiresome list. What is it to me whether Arvedui begat Aranarth, or Aranarth Arvedui?"

"You have no way of knowing," rejoined the wizard, "whether such knowledge will or will not prove useful; therefore, it is the better part of wisdom never to reject such learning as is proffered you."

Anomen sighed but forbore arguing a point that he knew he would never win. Still hand and hand with the wizard, off he went.

Mithrandir returned still smiling but also still cautious. Something was troubling the elf-lord, he knew. He found Elrond standing on the balcony, glass in hand. The elf-lord gestured to a second glass that rested upon the banister.

"Well, Mithrandir, have you come to question me about my ill humor?" the Elf said wryly.

"You do seem rather more melancholy than usual."

"I have been troubled by bad dreams, my friend, and your mention of Arwen not wanting to let Anomen go reminded me of them."

"Bad dreams?"

"Nightmares. In them a certain person appears and claims to be Anomen's father and insists on taking the lad away to—another realm."

"I see why you are so troubled," said Mithrandir gravely. "There is many an Elf who would be upset were that to happen—not just Arwen!"

"Indeed, that is so."

"But such a scenario is of course merely a hypothetical one."

"True," agreed Elrond.

"Then let us talk of it no further this night."

The two friends talked lightly of other matters until the moon rose. Then Mithrandir excused himself and went to the chambers that were set aside for his use when he visited Imladris. Outside his door stood a basket in which, neatly folded, were some of his clothes newly come back from the laundry. Mithrandir picked up the basket and carried it inside. On top lay a nightdress, a garment that he wore only when visiting Rivendell. Mithrandir unfolded it and looked at it with appreciation. It was a pleasure to have the opportunity to wear such an article. Usually the wizard slept rough, under hedgerows and overhangs or in the middle of haystacks, with his cloak wrapped tightly around him. On the occasions when he sheltered in a shed or outbuilding he might sometimes strip down to his leggings and under tunic, but it was rare that he had the luxury of donning a garment expressly designed for sleeping—and clean, too!

"Doesn't take much to keep me happy," Mithrandir said cheerfully as he shed his day clothes and pulled on the nightdress. He placed his clothing to be washed in the basket and set it outside the door for the servant to collect, and then he happily crawled into the bed. He lay on his back and flung his arms and legs outward just to revel in the sensation of stretching out upon a large mattress. No curling up to squeeze beneath the scanty shelter of a bush! In this setting of comfort, the wizard was soon asleep.

He was in comfort, yet not altogether _comfortable_. He had told Elrond that, the case being hypothetical, they ought not to consider the notion that a certain someone would lay claim to Anomen. Yet once asleep, the wizard was unable to follow his own advice. Dream-Mithrandir found himself back in the garden. Out of sight behind a bush, he watched as a certain King of Mirkwood took a turn around the garden. Curiously, this Elf would stop every few seconds and slap at his neck. "Ow!" he would cry fretfully. "Bother these horseflies!"

Now in point of fact visitors to the garden had never suffered from the depredations of horseflies, and Mithrandir's curiosity was aroused as to why that retreat should have suddenly become infested by these malevolent creatures. He crept nearer, until he spied the actual cause of Thranduil's discomfort. Hidden behind the statue of Gil-galad knelt two small figures. In their hands were slingshots, and by their knees lay a pile of acorns.

Mithrandir slipped around behind these culprits and pounced, collaring each by the neck. "Do you want to cause a diplomatic crisis?" he hissed. "He is taking Anomen away," Elrohir hissed back, his voice as vehement as it was soft. "He's a rotten Elf, and I hate him!" Elladan said nothing, but when he looked at Mithrandir his eyes were filled with tears.

"Hate is a powerful and unpredictable emotion," Mithrandir warned. "It is dangerous to unleash it even in the face of foes who may deserve it at our hands; how much the less then should we be eager to unleash it in the face of our allies."

Both elflings looked down at their feet, although Mithrandir sensed that Elladan was the more abashed of the two. The wizard sighed. Elrohir's fierce nature would make him a great warrior someday—or it would be the death of him. He would rush headlong into a situation beyond his control, and if that happened, Mithrandir hoped that no others would die as a result. However, he suspected that at the very least Elladan would be drawn into the slaughter. Elrond had been parted from Elros, but his sons would never be similarly parted. Live or die, they would remain together.

Mithrandir shook off his reverie and frowned at the two elflings, counterfeiting irritation. "Get you gone lest I tell your father what mischief you would do," he growled. The wizard released his hold on the elflings' necks and laughed to himself as they turned tail and scuttled away. 'That should make them behave for an hour or two', he chortled. Then he coughed to alert Thranduil to his presence and stepped into the open.

"Thranduil," he said, bowing politely, "I hope you find the garden pleasant."

"'Tis a pretty place," Thranduil answered, "but the insects torment me."

"I think you will find that a slight change in the weather suffices to rid the garden of those pests."

Thranduil rubbed the back of his neck and looked about, surprised to find that what the wizard said was true. "I believe you are correct, Mithrandir. They seem to have vanished of a sudden. And I was just about to give up and go inside."

"Oh, I wouldn't do anything rash, Thranduil." The Istar sat down upon the end of a bench and with a gesture invited Thranduil to take a seat as well.

Thranduil had become instantly wary when the wizard had urged him not to 'do anything rash', but he sat down nonetheless.

"I suppose," the King said carefully, "that you would also wish that I not do anything hasty with regards to Anomen." Mithrandir opened up his mouth to reply, but before he had uttered a word another person arrived in the garden. Around the corner trotted little Arwen. In her hands she clutched a 'bouquet'—a bunch of wilted flowers, stems broken, leaves trailing, that had been stuffed in her pinafore and then removed to be presented to her favorite wizard, 'Mith'. She stopped and scowled when she saw Thranduil. Then, when Mithrandir smiled at her, she went up to the wizard and proffered her gift. "I picked these for you, Mith. Aren't they pretty?"

"They are beautiful," the wizard said solemnly. Arwen beamed, but her smile vanished as she turned to Thranduil.

"I did not pick any flowers for _you_," she announced, "because _you_ are a bad, bad Elf. You want to steal Nomie. Bad! Bad! Don't you know that stealing is wicked?"

"Now, Arwen," began Mithrandir, "he is not exactly _stealing_ him. He is—"

"He is taking something that does not belong to him," interrupted Arwen. "That's stealing. Erestor says so."

"Well," Thranduil said dryly. "Erestor says so. That's settled, then."

"You see," crowed Arwen, who was too young to have any grasp of irony. "Even the bad, bad Elf knows he is taking something that does not belong to him!" Then, to Mithrandir's shock and Thranduil's amusement, she stuck out her tongue at the King before turning her back and marching off triumphantly.

"She doesn't usually behave that way," Mithrandir said apologetically. "Really! She is a good lass—not at all like her brothers. She's more akin to Haldir, actually—sometimes I think she's a changeling—although, as she _is_ Galadriel's granddaughter, perhaps—"

"You are babbling, Mithrandir," said Thranduil. Mithrandir realized that Thranduil was smiling, and he gaped at the King. Thranduil's smile turned to a grimace.

"Does everyone hereabouts think me so devoid of kindly feelings that I cannot be amused by the antics of a little elf-maiden? Am I believed to be such a demon?"

"Er, um," began Mithrandir, who really wanted to avoid giving an honest answer. His hesitation provoked a bitter laugh from the King.

"He is my _son_, Mithrandir. My son. Is it so horrible for a father to want his son?"

"No, Thranduil, it is not. But I will speak bluntly: There was a time when you did _not_ want your son. Dare you deny that?"

The anger left Thranduil's eyes, and his shoulders slumped.

"I cannot deny that," he said softly, "but I swear to you, Mithrandir, that I am not that king. I am someone else altogether."

"You may be someone else altogether, but you still must deal with the consequences of your former actions. First, _your_ _son_ does not wish to accompany you to Greenwood. Second, there are those here who love your son—who have loved your son for many turnings of the seasons. They will suffer when they are parted from him. Do not ask me to discount their pain even as I acknowledge yours."

Thranduil hung his head as Elladan and Elrohir had done earlier, and Mithrandir's heart softened. He laid a hand upon Thranduil's shoulder.

"And I do not deny your pain, Thranduil—truly I do not."

Thranduil nodded. Then he looked up and smiled wanly.

"Little Arwen spoke the truth," he said sadly. "Legolas does not belong to me—at least not altogether to me. It seems there are others who have a claim on him."

"Thranduil, someday that would have been true even if this rift between you had never been."

"Agreed, but that is little consolation."

"Even a _little_ consolation is better than none, is that not so?"

Thranduil shook his head, his eyes rolling.

"Mithrandir, I am truly glad that you do not sit on the other side of the table whilst I negotiate trade treaties. You mince words as if they were rare spices."

In his bed, the sleeping Mithrandir sneezed again and again. "Pepper," he muttered. "Pepper." He sat up, his eyes streaming. In the light from the moon, he saw dark specks scattered all about his linen. By the bed, on its side, lay a pepper shaker. No doubt it had been abandoned in haste when the wizard first sneezed.

"Elrohir!" roared the wizard. "Elladan! Anomen! I shall find you, and I shall pepper your hides!"

In his chamber, Elrond groaned into wakefulness. "What now?" he moaned. Grumbling a little, he arose and went to the window. From the garden came giggles. Elrond listened carefully. "All three of them," he smiled at the last. "Elrohir, Elladan, and, yes, Anomen. Up to their usual mischief, praised be the Valar." With that the elf-lord returned to his bedstead. And Mithrandir, too, resettled himself in his suddenly comfortable bed. "All things considered," he murmured as drew the duvet to his chin. "All things considered, I'd rather it be this way as not. Yes, I would gladly endure repeated dosing with the pepper pot—and a great many other things, too!—if only things could remain as they are. I do not want Anomen to be gone _at all_," yawned the wizard as sleep took him. "Ever!"


	10. Chapter 10: Planting the Seeds

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Krissy Wonder, Keji, Avion Jade, Dragonfly, CAH, and Opalkitty_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly.**

**Vocabulary:**

**meleth-nîn—my love (feminine)**

**melethril-nîn—my lover (feminine)**

**Chapter 10: Planting the Seeds**

Galadriel was dreaming. In her mind she stood in the garden of Rivendell. She smiled as she listened to the shouts of elflings, but one voice was missing. Why did she not hear Anomen at play with the others? Her feet took her into the Hall, and the Lady of Lórien found herself walking within a part of the Hall where guests were quartered. One chamber in particular she was drawn to.

As she approached the door of this chamber, a little figure ran down the corridor from the opposite direction and darted into the room. Galadriel smiled. Arwen. Galadriel slipped into the room and hid in an alcove to watch her granddaughter as she danced toward a bed upon which lay an elfling propped upon pillows with a book on his lap. So here was the missing elf-lad.

Galadriel smiled again as she saw that Arwen clutched a 'bouquet'. The Lady of Lórien was well acquainted with the elf-child's fondness for floral arrangements, if so they may be called. The Lady had been gifted with several such handfuls of wilted weeds. Somehow, when she placed the flowers in water, they had always sprung back to life. Perhaps it was her own magic operating upon the blossoms, but she preferred to believe it was Arwen's.

"Nomie," cried Arwen, "I have brought you a gift."

Anomen accepted the bedraggled bouquet graciously. He arose from his bed and limped to the table to retrieve a vase. Then the two of them sat upon the bed and arranged the flowers painstakingly.

"There," said Anomen at last. The two elflings sat admiring their handiwork. Suddenly, however, a shadow fell over them. Arwen looked up and shrieked. "It's the bad, bad Elf," she sobbed. She flung her arms around Anomen and tried to bury her head in the folds of his nightdress. As she butted up against Anomen, the vase very nearly fell from his hands to the floor, but Thranduil deftly caught it. The King held the vessel and its contents up to sun. "Beautiful," he murmured. "I had not thought that such an unpromising assortment would turn out so lovely. Methought they were only weeds, and wilted ones at that. But see how they bloom. Is there some virtue in the water hereabouts, that plants should flourish so?"

Arwen cautiously poked out her head. "Ada says my bouquets cannot help but be beautiful."

"And why is that, child?"

Arwen looked at him as if he were daft. "Because they are my bouquets and not someone else's."

"Ah, I see," said Thranduil solemnly. "How foolish of me not to understand."

Arwen had a sudden idea. "Do you _really_ think that this bouquet is beautiful?" she asked with the transparent slyness of the very young.

"I do indeed," Thranduil assured her.

"And you like pretty bouquets?"

"Assuredly I do."

"Then would you like a bouquet for your very, very own?"

"I should very much like such a lovely bouquet."

"Very, very much?"

"Very, very much."

"Well, if that is so, I shall make you one if you will trade me something for it."

"What would you have in exchange?" said Thranduil, pretending innocence.

"You must give me Nomie."

"Give you Nomie for your very own?"

"Yes!"

"Do you think you would be able to take care of him? It would be a big responsibility. He will need more than the occasional watering."

"Oh," said Arwen casually, "I would ask Elrohir and Elladan to help. Ada, too, and Erestor and Glorfindel and Mithrandir. Everyone will help."

"Goodness," said Thranduil in pretended surprise. "Are there really so many who stand ready to assist you?"

"Oh, yes," Arwen assured him. "Everyone hereabouts loves Nomie, so I will only have to ask, and they will help."

"Well," said Thranduil, setting the vase upon the table, "I shall have to think over your proposition. In fact, I shall go to the garden this very moment and meditate upon your offer."

"Very well," said Arwen gravely. "But as you do, remember that no one makes bouquets as beautiful as mine. You may ask anyone, and they will tell you so."

"I am sure you speak the truth," said Thranduil with a smile.

"Then I hope you have a lovely walk in the garden. I shall tell Elrohir and Elladan to leave off shooting acorns at you."

Thranduil was momentarily startled, and he glanced at Anomen, who blushed and took up his book and commenced to study it intently. The King recovered quickly, however.

"I thank you, my child. I would indeed be glad if I could walk in the garden without fear of being attacked by nuts."

Anomen snorted at these words, but Thranduil maintained a straight face as he strode from the room. After him slipped Galadriel.

As Thranduil stood in the garden, he was not at all surprised when Galadriel stepped forth to stand before him. "Did Elrond summon you?" he asked bluntly.

"He may have," Galadriel replied, "but if he did, he does not know it."

Thranduil groaned. "Do you have to be so enigmatic from the very start? Couldn't you proceed in stages, from clarity to confusion?"

"I believe," replied Galadriel with the serene smile for which she was famous, "that it is more usual to proceed _from_ confusion _to_ clarity. Is that not so?"

Thranduil groaned again and added eye-rolling for extra effect. "I think I must be dreaming," he muttered to himself. "Or having a nightmare."

"And could you tell the difference, Thranduil?"

"Of course I could," he said crossly.

"Oh, I think not," said Galadriel coolly. "Methinks you live in a dream and know it not."

Thranduil struggled to keep his temper. "How can that be so?" he challenged the Lady of Lothlórien.

"You dream that you can safely convey Anomen away from this place. You cannot."

"It is Legolas," said Thranduil angrily, "and I fail to see what is to prevent me from taking my son home to Greenwood. Are you suggesting that Elrond proposes to commit an act of treachery? Or perchance Glorfindel will play the villain? If that is what you mean," he added sarcastically, "I thank you for the warning. I shall take steps to forestall such villainy."

"I mean nothing of the sort. It is Anomen you must see to."

"It's Le-go-las," growled Thranduil. "Are you saying that my own son will betray me?"

"_Betray_ is not the proper word. Ask yourself, Thranduil: what are you prepared to do to bring Anomen away with you?"

"My warriors and I will cut down any Elf who tries to stand in my way," vowed Thranduil. "And it's L-e-g-o-l-a-s. Legolas."

Galadriel laughed. "Poor, poor Thranduil. You see: you live in a dream, and yet you cannot envision my meaning."

"Enough!" shouted Thranduil. "No more puns. Speak clearly."

"Very well. Are you prepared to tie Anomen to a horse and keep him so secured until you arrive at Greenwood? Once at the Great Hall, are you prepared to lock him in the dungeon for the centuries that it will take to break his spirit? If you are not prepared to do these things, then you dream if you think you can bring Anomen back to Greenwood and keep him there. And if you _do_ take such steps, you will nonetheless fail to regain your son. Nay, I swear to you that you will lose him forever if you behave so."

"And did you see these things in your mirror?" sneered Thranduil.

"It needs no mirror," Galadriel replied calmly. "If you truly knew your son, you would concede the truth of what I say."

"I know my son," growled Thranduil, but even as he spoke, he knew that he did not. Furious, he turned his back and stalked from the garden. For several hours, he roamed the Hall in agitation. At last he found himself outside the library. Impulsively, he entered the chamber. There sat Erestor looking over the elflings' exercise books. Open before him was Anomen's, for the lad had not been excused from his lessons. "You fell on your leg, not your head," Erestor had coolly replied to his entreaties, and the tutor came each day to Anomen's chamber, his arms laden with scrolls, pens, and inkpots.

Erestor looked up as Thranduil entered the room. "Ah, Lord Thranduil," he enthused, "I am so glad that you have come. You must look over this exercise that your son has but lately completed. Truly, he is the cleverest pupil I have ever had, and I have taught many."

Thranduil crossed over to Erestor and accepted the exercise book. He rifled through its pages, impatiently at first, but then more slowly. As he had on the day of his arrival at Rivendell, the King noticed how careful Anomen was in his studies and how equally careful Erestor was in correcting errors and suggesting improvements. Suddenly he tossed the book upon the table. "I should like to speak to Glorfindel, Mithrandir, Elrond, and you in company," he said abruptly to the tutor. "I pray that you send a messenger to summon your peers."

Erestor was alarmed but tried not to show it. "I shall summon them myself," he said politely, bowing his way toward the door. Once in the corridor, he ran pell mell toward Elrond's chamber, along the way startling many a servant.

"Elrond," the tutor cried as he burst through the door. "You must come to the library at once. Thranduil is there, and I think he means to depart Rivendell upon the instant." Here Erestor wrung his hands together and—burst into tears. Elrond lost all semblance of refinement and gaped at the unfortunate Elf, as did Glorfindel and Mithrandir, who were also in the room. Arwen also was present but she did not gape. She did, however, scurry out the door, her departure unobserved by the adults, who were preoccupied by Erestor's announcement.

Grimly the delegation of Elves and wizard strode toward the library. They entered—and stopped, nonplussed. They had expected an agitated Thranduil, but he sat calmly waiting for them. "Do be seated," he said to them politely. As they took their chairs, Arwen scampered through the door. She was holding up the edges of her kirtle, which was filled with flowers, some of them, Elrond could tell, plucked from a garden bed that was the Gardener's particular pride. Elrond sighed. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof', he thought to himself. 'I shall settle with the gardener later'. "Arwen," he spoke aloud, "this is no place for a child. We adults have matters of high import to discuss."

"Oh, let the little one stay," said Thranduil complacently. "Indeed, her presence is necessary."

In answer, in front of the amazed eyes of the Rivendell folk, Arwen danced up to Thranduil and dumped the flowers in his lap, dirt and all. Then she stood back and folded her arms. "Well?" she demanded.

"I have called you here," announced Thranduil, nodding gravely at Arwen, "to witness a transaction, lest it not be acknowledged as valid."

Mithrandir and the Rivendell Elves looked back and forth at each other. Transaction? Whatever was Thranduil talking about? And why was Arwen's presence necessary? Mystified, they watched as Thranduil selected a flower, held it up, and studied it.

"Tell me, Elrond," asked Thranduil. "What is this flower worth?"

Elrond frowned as he considered his answer. "Nothing," he said after a moment. "Everything," he added.

"Nothing and everything," mused Thranduil. "Which is as much as to say: priceless."

"Yes," agreed Elrond. "That flower is priceless."

"I am glad we have established its value," said Thranduil. "It is fair to exchange things of equal value, is that not so? Perhaps Erestor should answer, as he is a logician."

"That is so," said the tutor, pleased to be so named. Mithrandir, meanwhile, had started to grin. Glorfindel and Elrond noticed the wizard's expression and began to relax, although both were still in the dark as to where Thranduil was tending.

"I am glad that we are agreed," the King of Greenwood continued. "Since that is so, I should like to propose what I hope shall be a fair exchange. If you will allow me to bear away with me these priceless flowers, then in return Le—Anomen—shall remain here. What say you, Elrond? Can you bear to sacrifice so many priceless blossoms?"

Elrond was speechless for a moment. When he at last regained his voice, he could not swear avidly enough that he found the bargain good.

"You may take every flower in the garden," he exclaimed, "as long as that one bloom is left to flourish in this soil."

"So we have an accord?"

"Oh, yes, certainly."

"And you are fully satisfied with the terms?"

"Indeed, Thranduil! Most satisfied."

"Good. I would not have it said that the King of Greenwood deals falsely with his trading partners."

"You will never hear me say it," swore Elrond.

"I am glad," said Thranduil as he gathered his winnings into his arms and then arose. "If you will excuse me, I must see to the packing of these flowers. Items so precious must be cared for with all due diligence."

"Yes, and I assure you that the bloom you leave behind will receive such care."

"I can well believe it," answered Thranduil, "for I have seen plentiful signs that that has always been the case."

With those words, Thranduil strode from the room, leaving behind a trail of dirt. By his side scurried Arwen, taking three steps to every one of his. As she scampered, she chattered advice about how best to preserve the flowers.

"Elrond," said Mithrandir after Arwen's voice could no longer be heard. "Do you suppose that the Gardener might be prevailed upon to put up some packets of seed for Thranduil? They would be more durable than one of Arwen's bouquets."

"Once the word gets out that Thranduil has yielded Anomen," answered Elrond, "I imagine the Gardener could be prevailed upon to do anything within his power for the King of Greenwood."

Glorfindel laughed. "Aye, Elrond, and not only the Gardener. You had best look to your storerooms. The Cook will be preparing cakes for Thranduil and his Elves, the Armorer will be crafting bows enough for an army, the Saddler will be cutting patterns for headstalls, the Goldsmith shall be fashioning brooches for their cloaks—why, as to cloaks, the Seamstress shall be sewing them new ones. Thranduil will find that he has made a very good trade indeed!"

Everyone laughed, but then they sobered when Galadriel glided into the room.

"Galadriel," exclaimed Elrond. "I did not dream that you were here. You are very welcome."

Galadriel smiled acknowledgement to Elrond but addressed Erestor. "Well done, tutor. I see that you have been teaching not only elflings these past several days."

Erestor was puzzled. "It is true that I would gladly teach anyone who wished to learn, but I do not understand your meaning."

Glorfindel was thinking that Erestor would also gladly teach anyone who did _not_ wish to learn, but his thoughts were interrupted when Galadriel spoke again.

"On the day of Thranduil's arrival, did you not say to him, 'The ability to recognize when one's child should be entrusted to another is the mark of a wise and loving parent'?"

"Why, yes, I believe I did. Thranduil wished to rush to Anomen's side when the lad cried out in pain, but Elrond and Mithrandir were treating his injuries, and I was explaining to the King that—oh!"

Erestor fell silent as he finally understood the true import of the words he had spoken to Thranduil. Glorfindel was grinning and clapped him on the back.

"Erestor," the balrog-slayer declared, "the next time I am bedeviling you, quote that line at me, and I swear I shall fall silent upon the instant."

"Notice," jested Mithrandir, "that he only said 'the next time'. After that, I suppose you will go back to tormenting our poor tutor, eh, Glorfindel."

"You would not wish Erestor to become complacent," the balrog-slayer replied with aplomb.

"Little chance of that," smiled Erestor, shrugging. He was too happy over the latest turn of events to really care whether Glorfindel would resume chaffing him the sooner or the later.

Thranduil, meanwhile, had reached the chambers he shared with Anomen. He went straight to the table where sat the flower vase, and, with Arwen's help of course, he began to slip his flowers in amongst Anomen's. Anomen was napping, but he began to stir as Arwen chattered without restraint.

"Thranduil," she was saying, "is Greenwood very far from Rivendell?"

"Several days journey. One must cross a plain and come first to Lothlórien. Next one may choose either to cross the Misty Mountains or to journey south around them to the Gap of Rohan. From there one must ride north through Dunland."

"So it is farther than Lothlórien. I have been to Lothlórien, and I shall journey there again sometime." Arwen had a sudden thought. "When I am in Lothlórien, will you come visit me?"

"If it would please you."

"I would like it very much."

Anomen sat bolt upright.

"I want to go, too!"

"To Lothlórien?" said Thranduil. "That is an excellent idea. When Arwen journeys to the Golden Valley, you must accompany her."

Anomen stared bewildered at his father. He had meant that he wished to accompany Thranduil. The truth slowly dawned upon him.

"Then you are not taking me away to Greenwood?"

"As no one thinks it a good idea, no."

Anomen flung his arms around Thranduil. Arwen, not to be left out, did so as well.

Thranduil at first did not know what to do, so flummoxed was he. Then he flung his own arms around the two elflings and squeezed tight. The three stayed huddled together in this fashion for several minutes, until at last Arwen gasped, "I can't bweathe!" Laughing, Thranduil released his hold. Arwen regained her breath at once, seemingly, for she immediately began to chatter about how lovely it would be to visit Lothlórien and see not only her grandparents but also her dear, dear friend from Greenwood. "And won't you be ever so glad, too?" she appealed to Anomen.

"Oh, yes," said Anomen, "I shall be ever so glad to visit with, um, visit with my Adar."

Although Anomen's manner was a little awkward, it was the first time that the lad had addressed Thranduil as his 'father', and the King was deeply moved. 'I seem to have regained my son', he marveled to himself, 'and I did so by letting him go. Galadriel was right: I would have lost him had I tried to keep him'.

In Lothlórien, Galadriel roused herself from her sleep. Smiling, she went to her mirror and gazed upon its still surface. One by one it showed the sleeping Lords of Imladris. As Galadriel watched, their furrowed brows smoothed, and they fell into pleasant dreams that were far from the nightmares that had been afflicting them. She saw as well the face of Mithrandir. He was muttering and tossing in his sleep, but Galadriel sent her thoughts toward him, and he, too, was soon settled calmly in a bed that was at last altogether comfortable in every sense. Satisfied, Galadriel left her glade and returned to her talan. There she found Celeborn awake and waiting for her.

"Is anything wrong, meleth-nîn?" he asked.

"No," she answered coyly, "unless it be that I am awake and you are awake."

"I think, melethril-nîn," he answered, equally coy, "that that is no problem unless we cannot find a way to pass the time."

"Oh, so now it is 'melethril' and not 'meleth'," teased Galadriel.

"It is both," Celeborn replied with mock-gravity, "as I shall soon prove to you." Reader, no doubt he _did_ prove it to her, but the chronicles are silent on the matter. One thing is certain, however: the folk of both Imladris and Lothlórien, whether sleeping or awake, were at least for the time being freed of the nightmare of what might have happened had Thranduil found Anomen before the lad was ready for such a confrontation. And in that knowledge, may we all sleep well.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11: Sliding Out Of Trouble

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Farflung_, who has made it as far as Chapter 7 and looks to be catching up with me, _Krissy Wonder, Elfinabottle, Windwraith, Keji, Avion Jade, Dragonfly, CAH, and Opalkitty_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Folks may notice that the ending of this chapter is not consistent with what they remember of the ending of Chapter 4. If you go back to Chapter 4, you will see that I have revised the final paragraph to remove the inconsistency.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly.**

**Chapter 11: Sliding Out Of Trouble**

Glorfindel the Twice-Born was enjoying a lovely dream. In it he stood upon the training field as Anomen shot off his allotted arrows. Every arrow hit the target dead center. When Anomen finished, Glorfindel praised the elfling unreservedly. "You have a natural talent, my lad," he said to the elfling, "and you have augmented it through diligence and hard-work. Some day you will be the best archer in Middle-earth. Indeed, I believe it possible that you are already the best archer."

"Whether I be the best archer or no, I have benefited from the best teacher," Anomen replied promptly. "You have taken great care in my training. Indeed, you have been like a father to me."

With that, dream-Anomen flung his arms about the weapons-master and hugged him fiercely, and Glorfindel returned the gesture unashamedly.

A shaft of sunlight fell upon Glorfindel's face and roused him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking about with a slight expression of surprise upon his face, "Do you know," he murmured to himself thoughtfully, "I am glad the Valar allowed me to return to Middle-earth. I was not at all certain that I wanted to come back, for it seemed to me that Arda was full of pain and that all that I loved were lost to me. But Anomen, he has been like a son to me. I am glad I came back, if only to have had the privilege of helping raise that lad."

The balrog-slayer arose and continued thinking whilst he dressed.

'I do believe', he said to himself, 'that I should take Anomen scouting. He has worked very hard, and he deserves a day away from the training fields—and from the library, too,' he added, grinning at the thought of the indignant look that was sure to cross Erestor's face when he learned that his best pupil would be absent, leaving the tutor alone to cope with the combined 'efforts' of Elrohir and Elladan, augmented now by Nenmaethor, who—alas for Erestor—was no longer shy and diffident. Anomen and the twins had taught him too well!

Glorfindel had no sooner seated himself at the breakfast table than he announced that he desired that Anomen accompany him for the day. "It is time for him to turn more of his efforts toward scouting, don't you agree, Elrond?"

"As always," Elrond said, "I defer to your judgment in matters of military training. If you think he had better spend his day in the forest, then that is what he shall do."

Elladan and Nenmaethor looked envious, Elrohir jealous, and Arwen disappointed—but not as disappointed as Erestor, who immediately began to protest.

"A day spent in the forest!" he spluttered. "But there are books to be read, exercises to be written, and sums to be added."

"Said books, exercises, and sums will keep," Elrond replied calmly, returning his attention to his plate. Erestor saw that there would be no changing the mind of the Master of Rivendell. Sighing, he picked at his own food, wondering the while how he would endure a morning sequestered with Nenmaethor and the twins. Erestor had learned from bitter experience that Anomen's presence had a calming effect on the other elflings, and his absence the reverse. The tutor shot an annoyed look at Glorfindel, who did his best to look as if he couldn't possibly guess at what was upsetting Erestor so.

Meanwhile, Anomen was excited but a little apprehensive as well. He was glad that Glorfindel thought him ready to spend more time on scouting, but the balrog-slayer was as exacting in the field as Erestor was in the classroom, and Anomen hoped he would not disappoint the Elf. Elrohir guessed that Anomen would be feeling this way, and he opened his mouth to tease his foster-brother. Glorfindel forestalled him, however.

"Elrohir," that Elf called, "since Anomen and I will be in the forest, you and Elladan will be in charge of the younger novices."

Elrohir's jaunty look vanished, replaced by an expression of alarm. He had played quite a few tricks on the little elflings, and he feared they would see Glorfindel's absence as an opportunity for payback. Apparently Nenmaethor thought so, too. "I'll be in Elrohir's group," he eagerly volunteered, grinning wickedly. 'Ai', thought Elrohir in dismay, 'Nenmaethor means to be the ringleader. Oh, I wish I had not teased him yesterday when he lost his arrow in the bushes behind his target'. He looked to his father, but Elrond ignored Elrohir's silent plea for help. Whatever torments were visited upon Elrohir today, as long as no safety rules were violated, the Master of Imladris would not intervene. Perhaps, Elrond thought, Elrohir would learn a lesson—not very likely, he knew, but not absolutely impossible, either.

After breakfast, Anomen accompanied Glorfindel to the armory. The balrog-slayer of course had his own weapons, which he kept at the ready in his rooms, but Anomen was a novice, and such 'weapons' as he kept in his chamber were more useful as toys than as arms. Glorfindel walked up and down the rows of unstrung bows, stopping ever so often to pick one up and study it, flexing it and going through the imaginary motions of knock-draw-release. At last he selected one a little larger than the bow Anomen used on the practice field. "Let me see how you do with this one," he commented as he handed the bow to his pupil.

Once again feeling a mix of pride and apprehension, Anomen followed Glorfindel outside. "String the bow," Glorfindel commanded. Anomen obeyed and then Glorfindel pointed at a tree. "Do you see that broken branch on the tree yonder? You do? Good. Bring it down."

Glorfindel expected Anomen to carefully sight his target. Instead, his motions fluid, the elfling drew, nocked, and released his arrow so swiftly that Glorfindel could scarcely distinguish one act from the next. The dangling branch, its connection to the tree neatly severed, plummeted to the ground. "That bow will do, seemingly," deadpanned the balrog-slayer. Anomen, too, kept his face straight, but he knew that his teacher was gratified by his performance. The two walked on toward the stables, this time Anomen striding by the side of the balrog-slayer rather than trailing several paces behind.

In short order, the two were riding forth from Rivendell, Anomen on his pony and Glorfindel on the great warhorse that nobody dared mount save the balrog-slayer. They entered the woods, and Glorfindel, rather than instructing Anomen in the signs, asked the elfling to tell him the story of what had taken place in the forest over the last several days. The balrog-slayer knew that Anomen already had good tracking skills, and he was not about to waste time teaching the lad lessons he had already learned.

"An owl hereabouts has been feasting upon mice," Anomen said, pointing to the scat at the base of a tree. "And deer have recently crossed this path."

"How many deer?" asked Glorfindel.

Anomen dismounted to better study the spoor.

"Three," he said at last. "One set of tracks is smaller than the others. As for the other marks, there is one animal has a chipped hoof, and another that does not."

"Did they pass at the same time?"

"No," said Anomen. "The deer with the chipped hoof passed later. His prints are sharper than the others, which have seen at least one rainfall. Then, too, his prints overlay theirs, but never the reverse."

"You say 'his'. A buck, then?"

"Yes, he roams alone and his prints are the deeper, as one would expect of a buck. The other two sets like as not were made by roe and fawn. If I wanted a deer, I would not follow that trail. I would follow the buck."

"And do you want a deer?"

"Fresh venison would be good."

"Lead on, then."

Anomen and Glorfindel set loose their horses to graze in a nearby meadow, and they began to hunt in earnest. Glorfindel noticed with approval that Anomen kept his gaze directed several paces ahead of his feet. It was neither necessary nor desirable to examine every inch of ground. Instead, a good tracker would glance ahead and try to descry the furthermost evidence of his quarry's passage, moving quickly from one spoor to the next. Glorfindel was also pleased to see that when they came to a patch of hard ground, Anomen would quickly pass over it and try to pick up the trail again in softer soil. Again, it was a matter of marshalling one's time and energy.

Ahead, Anomen suddenly tensed.

"Lord Glorfindel," he whispered, "we are not the only hunters in this forest." He gestured for Glorfindel to join him and pointed forward to a print pressed into the ground ahead of him. It was the mark of a boot such as was not worn by any Elf. That was plain to see both from its design and from the depth of the print. This was a heavyset Man, not a graceful Elf.

"Poacher," growled Glorfindel. "Well, tracking a poacher is its own sort of pleasure, although the outcome generally does not include a good meal. Go on."

Anomen took a breath and then resumed the hunt, his quarry now a Man. This prey was even easier to follow than the buck had been. Anomen found numerous footprints. The Man's passage was also marked by broken branches and trampled ferns. It was not long before the Elves could hear the Man. "He breathes so loudly," whispered Anomen, who now had to repress a giggle, "that I could shoot him in the dark." Glorfindel quelled his levity with a look.

"He may be noisy, but he may also be dangerous. Approach him as if he were a wounded wolf."

Anomen suddenly realized that Glorfindel meant for him to apprehend the poacher on his own, and he trembled a little. He took another steadying breath and moved stealthily forward while Glorfindel lagged deliberately behind. Anomen knew that the balrog-slayer would come to his assistance if he faced genuine peril, but the older Elf meant to keep his presence hidden from the poacher so that he could see how well Anomen would manage a foe who was confident that he faced only one opponent, and a young one at that.

Anomen moved forward until he could see the poacher, who held a bow at the ready as he stared intently into the undergrowth. The deer was very close, and the preoccupied Man, listening to the rustling of his quarry, was unaware of the silent approach of the Elves. Anomen eased an arrow out of his quiver and nocked and drew his bow. His preparations complete, from the cover he challenged the poacher.

"Drop your weapon, human. You are trespassing in the lands of Lord Elrond of Imladris."

The Man whirled about and looked for the source of the voice. Anomen was well hidden, but the human guessed from his voice that he was very young. The Man grinned. Maybe he could bag an Elf as well as a deer. Southrons who had passed through his village a fortnight ago had offered to pay well for any Fair Folk delivered as captives. What the Haradrim wanted with Elves the Man did not know, nor did he care. Profit was all. As usual, times were hard in Dunland.

"Come out, boy," the human wheedled. "You are lost, I wager, or you wouldn't be out here alone. Come out, and I will lead you to a village where your presence will gladden the hearts of many."

This latter statement was true, of course, although for the most distasteful of reasons, as Anomen well knew.

"Do not speak foolishness, human," Anomen replied. "It is you who are lost, although mayhap you know it not."

As Anomen uttered these words, the Man made sure of his location, and he lunged toward the elfling's hiding place. Without flinching, Anomen at once released his arrow, which passed through the Man's sleeve, pinning his arm to a tree. The human, however, quickly tore free and sprang forward, thinking that he could reach his foe before the young Elf had a chance to draw and nock a second arrow. He was brought up short, however, by the sight of a shaft aimed directly at his chest. Anomen had stepped clear of the brush, and he captured the Man's eyes with a gaze that did not blink.

"Move another step, and you will die," Anomen said resolutely. "I will cut you down like the warg I have but lately slain."

The Man gaped. Anomen's steadfast gaze and his steady grip upon the bow convinced him that the youngling spoke the truth both about his present intentions and his past conquests.

"Put down your weapons," Anomen instructed him. "All of them."

The Man complied, dropping bow, quiver, and knife upon the ground.

"Now leave these lands and never return."

"But my weapons!" protested the Man. "How shall I defend myself as I journey?"

"You cannot," replied Anomen coolly. "I suggest therefore that you make for your own land with all the speed you can muster. Swift flight shall be your only avenue of escape. Now go!"

The Man turned and fled, bulling through the undergrowth in his haste. Anomen lowered his bow. He jumped a little when Glorfindel laid an arm upon his shoulder. "Well done," was all the weapons-master said. His words were few, but the tone of his voice conveyed the depth of his approval.

Anomen and Glorfindel gathered up the Man's bow, quiver, and blade and returned to their horses. The day's lesson was an end. They would bring back no fresh venison, but the taste of victory over the poacher was very sweet.

"Anomen," Glorfindel said as they rode. "Would you have shot the poacher had he not yielded?"

"Not today, for there was no need. Had the poacher called my bluff, I could have easily evaded him and left his punishment in your hands. But had I been alone, then, yes, I would have shot him. Such a one cannot be permitted to return to his village unscathed, there to encourage others to recklessly invade the lands of the Elves."

"A wise answer," said Glorfindel, impressed. "There are some novices who would have slain the wretch out of fear that they would have otherwise lost face in the eyes of their master. Your reasoning, however, is good, and your motives pure."

They rode in silence the rest of the way. Then, once they had arrived at Rivendell and seen to their horses, Glorfindel spoke again. "You need not return your bow to the armory," he said offhandedly, as if it were a matter of no great import. "You may have the keeping of it. I do not doubt but that you will guard it as carefully as any warrior would."

Anomen was thunderstruck. This was a full-sized bow, not a toy such as elflings were permitted to keep to play with in the garden.

"I believe," Glorfindel continued, "that you may as well also have the care of a sword and a shield and a warrior's knife. Mind that you keep them polished!"

"I will," promised Anomen. Suddenly, impulsively, Anomen flung his arms about the weapons-master and hugged him fiercely. Glorfindel was startled at first. It seemed like a moment from a dream. After a moment's pause, though, Glorfindel returned the gesture unashamedly.

"You are a good lad," the weapon's master said, "and I love you."

Anomen had been thunderstruck before; now he was doubly so. "I, I, I," he stammered, not knowing what to say. After a moment, though, he had an inspiration. "I love you as well," he said simply. Glorfindel smiled and gave Anomen a teasing tug on one braid as he released him. "Well, now that we have surprised each other thoroughly, we had best walk on to the Hall. Elrond will think that we are eating in the field, and no one will put aside a plate for us."

After a day spent tracking, Anomen was hungry, and he had no desire to miss supper. He returned the balrog-slayer's smile, and the two walked side by side toward the Great Hall. Just before they reached it, Glorfindel said, "Anomen, when you are on the training fields with the other elflings, you must address me as 'Lord Glorfindel'. I do not wish any of the elflings to believe that you will benefit from any favoritism on my part. On other occasions, when no other elflings are present, you may simply call me 'Glorfindel'.

Anomen nodded. Glorfindel's request made sense to him. Whenever Elrond stood before an assembly acting formally in his capacity as lord of Imladris, Glorfindel addressed him as 'Lord Elrond'. When amongst family and close friends, however, Glorfindel omitted Elrond's title. Glorfindel was asking Anomen to do something similar.

When the two entered the dining hall, therefore, it was as it always had been. Glorfindel strode in the lead, and Anomen followed several respectful steps behind. Glorfindel went to sit on the right hand of Elrond, and Anomen slipped into his seat between Nenmaethor and Elladan. (Elrond knew better than to allow Anomen to sit next to Elrohir, as disaster invariably ensued.)

"You are only just in time, my friend," said Elrond. "I was about to eat your portion."

Elrond was in fact joking. Anomen, however, had indeed stood in danger of forfeiting his share. Elrohir, Elladan, and Nenmaethor had been eyeing both the platter in front of them and each other, each elfling calculating when it would be best to make a move. Anomen's arrival, however, had forestalled them. Elrohir collapsed back in his chair with a dramatic sigh.

"I shall starve," he moaned.

"I don't see how," grumbled Elladan, "when you have eaten both my roll and Nenmaethor's."

"I needed both," retorted Elrohir. "For I am weary with much care," he said loftily, adopting the manner of an adult. "The elflings I warded today were as wicked as Orcs—and that includes you, Nenmaethor," he added, reverting to a childish tone—a peevish one, too.

The other elflings giggled at his brief attempt at sounding like a grown-up, and Elrohir tried to look aggrieved but could manage nothing better than a pout.

The adults, meanwhile, were discussing Anomen.

"How did your pupil fare today?" asked Elrond as he sipped from his glass of Dorwinion wine.

"Superlatively, as usual," replied the balrog-slayer.

"That is to be expected," observed Erestor, "for he has been well-taught." Whatever his differences with Glorfindel, the tutor was at heart honest and generous and therefore did not hesitate to give credit where credit was due.

"He more than repays my efforts," replied Glorfindel, "so I cannot demand recognition for his performance."

"You do yourself an injustice, Glorfindel," observed Mithrandir. "Even the most talented pupil may turn out poorly if he does not receive proper guidance. You have taken great care over his education—as has Erestor—and the results are obvious to all."

Erestor, always the quicker to show his emotions, smiled gratefully at the wizard, while Glorfindel merely inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. The meal now being at an end, the Elves arose and made to leave the chamber. As they reached the door, they were joined by Arwen, who attached herself to her father.

"Ada Ada Ada," she chanted, seizing hold of Elrond's sleeve.

"Yes, child," he said indulgently.

"Ada, may I go berry-picking tomorrow?"

"I have some matters to attend to in the morning, Arwen, but after lunch I will take you."

"No no no! I want Nomie to take me."

Elrond looked at Glorfindel.

"I can spare the lad," said the weapons-master. "More to the point, I suppose, his skills will not suffer for a day spent in childish pursuits. Besides," he added with mock severity, "I shall merely demand the more of him the day after."

"Very well," said Elrond, smiling. "Arwen, after Anomen has completed his lessons in the library, he will take you berry-picking—if he wants to, that is. Have you asked him?"

"Oh, he will go," said Arwen confidently. "He likes to make me happy, and if he says no, I shall cry."

"Arwen!" exclaimed Elrond, caught between a laugh and a frown. He had to disapprove of Arwen's plan at playing the martyr. At the same time, though, he could not help but be amused at her carefree confidence in her dramatic abilities and their probable effect upon the unfortunate Anomen. Innocent of her father's equivocal feelings, however, Arwen was already dancing away to tell Anomen that they would go berry-picking on the morrow.

"I pity the youth whom Arwen picks as her betrothed," laughed Glorfindel, "for she will have him wrapped around her little finger—nay, around even so little as a single strand of her raven hair!"

"That will be Anomen, I suppose," said Erestor.

Mithrandir shook his head. "No, it will not be Anomen," he declared emphatically.

"Oh ho!" teased Glorfindel. "Has Galadriel gifted our wizard with some of her foresight?"

"It needs no especial power to see that Arwen will not choose Anomen. He is her brother in deed and in name, and only an Orc or a Troll would mate a sibling. Not even amongst Men is such a thing done."

"True," agreed Elrond, but he sighed as he spoke. "Pity," he mused. "The match would have been an advantageous one, given his parentage—um, I mean, pity we know nothing of the lad's parentage," he finished lamely, faced with the horrified faces of his friends. Given their recent collective nightmare, it was inconceivable to them that Elrond would be so foolish as to allude to a certain Elf from Greenwood.

Arwen, meanwhile, was prattling to Anomen, who had retired to the garden and was oiling the haft of his newly-gifted dagger.

"Anomen, you must take me berry-picking tomorrow after lunch. Ada says you may."

"I shall have to ask Glorfindel as well, 'Wen."

"Oh, he has already said yes."

Anomen considered. Normally he would have been delighted to take Arwen berry-picking. Now, however, he thought longingly of his newly-acquired weaponry. He had planned to spend the morrow polishing his shield. In the end, though, his love for Arwen won out. 'After all', he consoled himself, 'I can always bring my shield with me and polish it whilst Arwen picks her berries'. He spoke aloud.

"Yes, Arwen. I shall be glad to take you berry-picking."

The little elf-maiden at once scurried off to tell the Cook that it was necessary that he prepare pie crusts on the morrow. The Cook agreed with a forbearance that he rarely exhibited when her brothers were in the vicinity of the kitchen. Perhaps Arwen always found the Cook in good-humor because, instead of stealing sweets, she always begged for them with disarming frankness.

After breakfast next morning, Anomen slipped his dagger into its sheath and, shouldering his shield, went to join Arwen at the gates of Rivendell. He smiled when he saw her, dancing from foot to foot, a pail clutched in each chubby fist. "Pie for me, pie for you, pie for Elladan and Elrohir, too," she sang.

"No pie for Ada and Nenmaethor? Or for Mithrandir and Glorfindel and Erestor?"

Arwen considered. "Pie for Ada, Nenmaethor, and 'Mith," she said at last. "No pie for 'Restor and Glorfin'."

Anomen winced at the sound of 'Glorfin'. He was glad that someday Arwen would grow out of her lisp and babyish speech.

"Why no pie for them?"

"Because I heard them say that tomorrow they will make you work very, very hard."

"I don't mind, Arwen. Or, at least, I don't mind very much. The harder I work, the more I learn."

"You are sure you don't mind?"

"I am sure," Anomen solemnly assured her.

"Very well, then. Pie for everybody. But," she added mournfully, "that means we shall each have only a very tiny slice."

"Not if you fill both those buckets," Anomen pointed out. "If you do, there will be more than enough berries for two pies.

"Good! You and I shall share one. The others may share the second."

"You and I should be sick if we shared one pie between us. You don't really want to be ill, do you, Arwen?"

"Noo-oo!"

"Good. I have an idea: the elflings share one pie; the adults share the other. That will allow plenty for all, don't you think?"

Arwen agreed that this would be a grand solution. They were now drawing near the berry-patch. It was a little further from Rivendell than the one the elflings usually frequented, but Arwen had insisted upon the change. "That one has been picked over, 'Nomie," Arwen had complained when he suggested they go to their usual spot.

The berry patch was on the east side of a knoll. Approaching from the west, the two elflings breasted the top of the hill. Anomen found a comfortable log to perch upon, one that would allow him to o'erlook the entire eastern slope, down to the thicket at its base. He drew out a rag and tin of grease and began to vigorously polish his shield, even though, in fact, it was already so shiny as to set the sun to shame. Arwen, meanwhile, began to work her way down the slope, singing all the while. As Anomen worked, he kept track of her by her warbling, and for good measure he raised his head from time to time to be certain of her whereabouts. The berries hung thick upon the bushes, which until now had been safe from the depredations of greedy elflings, and Anomen saw that both pails were filling rapidly. He was glad, as he looked forward as much as Arwen to demolishing his share of the pie. He began to whistle. Perhaps this is why he did not immediately notice that Arwen had fallen silent. When he did realize that this was the case, he instantly looked up from his shield and sought her with his eyes. She had reached the thicket at the base of the slope. She was standing erect, staring at the thicket, and Anomen saw that she had dropped her buckets, which lay by her feet, ignored, the berries spilled carelessly into the weeds. Instead of the pails, Arwen clutched a stick as if it were a club, gripping it with both hands and brandishing it as if she were about to strike at foe. Anomen sprang to his feet and gazed hard at the thicket in front of Arwen. As he watched in horror, the head and shoulders of a beast emerged that he knew all too well. Warg! "My bow!" Anomen cried aloud. "I haven't my bow."

Acting on instinct, Anomen flung his shield to the ground and leaped upon it as it began to slide down the hill. This sudden movement captured the attention of the warg, and the startled beast froze, staring confusedly at the unusual creature that was hurtling toward it. Anomen reached the bottom of the hill whilst the warg still hesitated. He kicked his shield up into the air, caught it, and hurled it at the warg. It caught the surprised animal upon the throat, very nearly decapitating it. Anomen was taking no chances, however, and so for good measure he drove his blade into the body of the beast. Then he dropped upon his knees and threw his arms around Arwen, who, still clutching her stick, had gone perfectly still.

For a long time the two elflings remained thus, neither capable of speech. Arwen recovered first.

"I dropped all my berries," she said mournfully.

This statement, a non-sequitur if there ever were one, struck Anomen as somehow hysterically funny. He began to giggle uncontrollably whilst pounding upon the ground with feet and fist. Arwen of course imitated him until Anomen suddenly left off giggling and began to cry. All the motherly instincts in Arwen's body awoke at the sight of Anomen sobbing.

"There, there," she said soothingly, patting Anomen upon the head. "There, there. The nasty beast is all gone. There, there. Let's go home. I'm hungry."

Anomen began to giggle again as Arwen veered from motherly to childish and back again. At last, with an effort, he regained control of himself. They had best return to the Hall at once. What if there were another warg thereabouts? He rose to his feet.

"Never mind about the berries, Arwen. The Cook will understand, and there is another patch, to the south, that we may visit to replace the berries you have lost."

He drew his knife from the beast's carcass, wiped it upon the grass, and sheathed it. Then he slung his shield over his shoulder and proffered a hand to Arwen.

They walked swiftly, for Anomen was anxious to regain the Hall whilst the sun was still high above the horizon. Arwen was forced to take two steps for every one of Anomen's. Eventually she came to a halt, tugging on Anomen's hand.

"Nomie," she whimpered, "I'm tired."

Anomen tried to pick her up but found he could not manage both her and the shield. He put down both and looked back and forth between the two. He had a sudden inspiration. He took off his belt and fastened one end around the handhold on the shield. "Sit in the shield, Arwen," he instructed. "I shall pull you as if it were wintertime and this a sled."

"You will scratch the shield," Arwen pointed out, "and Glorfindel will be angry."

"The shield is already scratched from sliding down the hill," Anomen answered. "A few more scratches will not signify."

Arwen crawled into the concave side of the shield. Anomen handed her his sheath, which he had removed when he took off his belt. Then he took hold of the free end of leathern strap and began to pull his shield with its now giggling passenger. Making good time, they neared the Hall when it was still full daylight. Anomen halted. Although he had not feared to add additional scratches to the shield, he did not want Glorfindel to actually see him using it as a sledge. Arwen had had a good rest, and since they were so close to the Hall, Anomen felt safe enough to slow to a pace that the elf-maiden could more easily handle.

So it was that Arwen walked into the garden under her own power, if a little worse for wear. Glorfindel and Elrond were taking a turn around the grounds, and from afar they caught sight of the two elflings and hastened toward them. Arwen, they observed, was disheveled, and she had lost the berry buckets. Anomen, too, was disheveled, but what the Elves noticed the most was his shield. It was covered with dirt and scratches. As they neared the younglings, Glorfindel in particular eyed the shield in anger and disappointment. He had thought Anomen ready to taking on the responsibility of caring for the weapons of a warrior. Apparently, he thought, he had been wrong. The weapons-master opened his mouth to sternly rebuke Anomen, but before he could speak, Arwen began to prattle.

"I was almost eaten by a wolf!" she cried. "A big, ugly wolf with yellow teeth and a hump on its shoulder. But Anomen slid down the hill and slew it."

"Slid down the hill?" said Elrond.

"On his shield! He slid down the hill on his shield, and then he hit the wolf with his shield and then he stabbed the wolf with his knife. It is lying there still. Ada, you must go and see it before the crows eat it. It is the biggest wolf I have ever seen. It is as big as, as, as—an oliphaunt! Yes, an oliphaunt!"

"Warg," said Anomen softly to Elrond so that Arwen might not hear. Elrond nodded and turned to Glorfindel, speaking equally softly.

"My friend, will you backtrack the young ones and study the body of this warg and its trail? We must learn as much as we can about this latest incursion."

"Aye, Elrond," said the balrog-slayer. His face was still grim, but not with anger at Anomen. Had he the luxury of time, he would have praised the lad and proclaimed his deed throughout Imladris. That would have to come later, however.

An hour after dusk, Glorfindel returned from the forest. Under his arm was a large bundle that he delivered to one of the workshops before disappearing into Elrond's chamber for a long discussion with the elf-lord. The next day troops of Elves departed from Rivendell to strengthen the patrols on the borders to the east.

A month later, as Elrond's household assembled for the day-meal, Glorfindel entered the dining hall with an awkwardly-shaped bundle under his arm that he slipped underneath the table. At the conclusion of the meal, Elrond arose and called for silence.

"No doubt you all know that two fortnights ago my daughter Arwen was attacked by a fell beast."

There was a murmur of assent.

"You have also heard that Anomen, although he had neither sword nor bow, succeeded in slaying the beast through his wits and his courage."

Another murmur, louder this time and mingled with a few shouts of 'well done!' Elrond gestured for Anomen to arise and nodded at Glorfindel, who stood and pulled out the bundle from under the table. He opened it and held up a leather jerkin of the sort that served Elves as armor. It was flexible but would repel all but a direct sword thrust. It was smaller than the usual jerkin, however, of a size suitable for an elfling.

"This jerkin," declaimed Glorfindel, "was cut from the pelt of the beast Anomen slew." He bowed toward the elfling and proffered the jerkin to him.

The room erupted into cheers, and Anomen's friends began to pound rhythmically upon the tables as the elfling accepted the prize and stammered out his thanks. Then he turned to resume his seat. "Wait, Anomen," called Elrond. Anomen halted, confused, and Glorfindel now pulled out a pair of vambraces.

"An archer should never lack vambraces," declared the weapons-master. More cheering and table-pounding. Anomen again stammered out his thanks and made to take his seat, but Elrond, who no longer tried to hide his smile, again stayed him. Glorfindel pulled out an elegantly tooled quiver.

"An archer should have a quiver, too, is that not so?" said Glorfindel, who, like Elrond, was smiling.

Anomen was now incapable of speech. The very walls seemed to be trembling as folk cheered, clapped, pounded the tables, and stomped their feet. The elfling managed a nod and again tried to regain his seat. Again Elrond stayed him, and the elf-lord gestured for silence so that Glorfindel could continue.

This time Glorfindel produced two sheaths, likewise elegantly tooled, one a large scabbard for a sword and the other a smaller holder for a knife.

"We all know," Glorfindel said to the assembly, "that Anomen is not only a superb archer but also highly skilled with blades both large and small. No, wait." Glorfindel held up his hand as the Elves once again began to cheer. The weapons-master produced one last object, a belt adorned with mithril fittings. "One who would bear sword and knife also must possess a sturdy belt on which to fasten sheath and scabbard."

"How, how is this possible?" Anomen at last managed to stammer.

"It was a very large beast," deadpanned Elrond. "I have it on excellent authority that it was as big as an oliphaunt."

Laugher mingled with cheers, but none of the merriment was unkindly meant. Instead, all were glad for the elfling who had had so little when he first came to Rivendell. Indeed, he had had nothing—no possessions and, worse, no confidence. Now he stood before them a hero. Or sat, actually, as he had at last succeeded in retaking his seat.

That night Nenmaethor composed a new letter to his parents, in it excitedly describing the latest exploits of his friend Anomen.

"He has slain another warg," he wrote, "and this time single-handedly and in the cleverest fashion, for he carried neither bow nor sword but only a shield and a dagger. Everyone lauds his courage and cleverness, even Elrohir, who sometimes likes to tease him and others." (Unstated in the letter: Nenmaethor was one of the 'others'.)

Several weeks later, the missive arrived in Greenwood. Reading it, Penidhren exulted in his wisdom at leaving Nenmaethor in the company of an elfling who was so clearly destined for greatness. He carried the letter about with him for days, sharing it with friends, peers, acquaintances, visitors, servants—in short, with anyone who was polite enough to listen or unlucky enough to lack an excuse not to. One day he stood in the alcove of a corridor in the Great Hall, surrounded by warriors who had but lately returned from patrol and who had therefore not yet had the honor of listening to a reading of Nenmaethor's account of Anomen's feat. As this was their first time hearing it, they were suitably impressed by the exploits of the elfling who could slay a warg single-handedly.

Unbeknownst to Penidhren, however, his audience extended beyond this cluster of warriors. Thranduil was walking down the corridor, and as he approached the alcove, he heard excited voices. Curious, he slowed down to hear what was being said.

"I must say, Penidhren, that you made a wise choice in leaving your son in Rivendell. This friend of his sets an excellent example for a young Elf."

"Oh, but there's more," said Penidhren, lowering his voice for effect, but not speaking so softly that Thranduil could not hear. "I have it on excellent authority that the lad is the son of Glorfindel."

"No! Glorfindel the Twice-Born?"

"Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer?"

"Yes," said Penidhren smugly. "My Nenmaethor is the companion of the son of Glorfindel Twice-Born, mighty Balrog-Slayer. He is called Anomen because various complications prevent Glorfindel from acknowledging the lad outside Elrond's circle. But if you saw him, you would have no doubt. Brilliant-blue eyes he has, and golden hair. Excellent with sword, knife, and bow, just like his sire. He may have no name, but it's certain he has a father."

Thranduil stood stock still in his misery. His son would have looked so, his eyes blue, his hair golden, and if he had been raised as he ought to have been, even now warriors might have been gathered in praise of him. 'I would give anything—anything!—if only that lad could have been my own', he thought mournfully. 'And I would not have hesitated for a moment to acknowledge him as such, no, no matter what the complications might be. I would proclaim to the four corners of my kingdom: This is my son. I am proud of him. I am proud of him, and I love him'.

Head downcast, Thranduil retreated back up the corridor. He returned to his chamber and threw himself sadly upon his bed, for he knew that the son that he longed for could exist only in his dreams.

**This is the final chapter of this particular elfling tale. I haven't worked on _Parallel Quest_ for a while, and I've been really neglecting _The Exiles of Sirion_. I plan to devote some time to them in the near future. It may be a little while before I post to either story, however. My daughter and I are leaving tomorrow morning to visit the grandparents in New Jersey and spend some time in New York City. Ta ta!**


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